Kitty's Keeper/No Clean Blades

IV

Kitty cursed the cruel logic of dreams. No matter how fast they ran, the creature was faster, even on its stubby little limbs! Eventually, the distance between the two grew and grew, until the tiny beast turned a corner and was lost. Kitty turned the same corner, and found themselves in a dense forest, no evidence of their previous location in sight.

Of course.

Phoenix flies flitted past their head as they trudged through the undergrowth, searching for any evidence of their verdant quarry or, better yet, John.

Oh, John was going to get an earful as soon as they found him. "Noble Ground Apple" their enchanted head! Likely some nonsensical misdirection for a sleeping potion! Whatever pleasure the siren derived from tricking them would be middling in comparison to the comeuppance his 'dear Kitty' had in store!

What exactly that comeuppance was, Kitty had no idea, not yet, but any thoughts on the matter were stemmed by the sound of music a few steps away.

"My baby says she's trav'lling on the one after Nineonine!

I said move over honey, I'm travelling on that line!

I said move over once, move over twice,

Come on, baby, don't be cold as ice!

'Said you're trav'lling on the one after Nineonine!"

Kitty stopped to listen, but that was all. Their deities were singing, yet they were not enthralled. They crept behind a berry bush, silent all the time, then shook their head upon realizing they were acting in rhyme!

As discreetly as they could manage, Kitty poked their head through the bush. A large, circular table stood in a clearing, the centerpiece for what the acolyte could only describe as a John-party. About seven versions of the siren sat around it, sharing tea and biscuits and singing up a storm. One of them, the youngest version as far as Kitty could tell, stood in the center—on the table!—clad in leather from head to toe and rocking his heart out.

"I begged her not to go and I begged her on my bended knee!

You're only foolin' 'round, only foolin' 'round with me!

I said move over once, move over twice,

Come on, baby, don't be cold as ice!

'Said you're trav'llin' on the one after Nineonine!"

There was no amp-estyst, yet his guitar roared through the trees. The other Johns harmonized when they could, raising their teacups like sailors in a tavern.

"Pick up my bags,

Run to the station.

Railman says,

'You've got the wrong location.'

Pick up my bag,

Run right home.

Then I find

I've got the number wrong—"

Kitty tried to get closer, but stepped on a branch instead. They felt a strange sense of familiarity as the music stopped and all the Johns turned their way. What did Paul call it? Ah, yes: deja-vú.

Kitty froze. The Johns stalked the bush, looking the human right in the eyes as they approached, slick and sly.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a party crasher," said the bohemian artist.

"Peeping Tom, more like," teased a slimmer, impatient version.

The leather-clad one took up the lead and reached the bush first. "Might as well come out, dearie! If not, we'll have to smoke you out ourselves!"