No Strings

Mister Tom and the Truth (part1)

Very dark and not for the faint of heart....

Once upon a time dwelled a small (well, not really all small) tabby cat that lived in the woods with a only boy picking berries and collecting rocks that filled his heavy heart until it turned into stone.

The berries provided plentiful sorrow and anguish to sweep upon lonely bones, yet also supplied ample truth. Truth is the greatest accomplishment of a most noble heir to the king of kings.

Truth was both a man and a, well, truth. And so was his name, Truth; no matter how troublesome the burden of lighting the path, he always did. To the chagrin of his mother and the annoyance of his sister, followed by his teacher and preacher and even the mysterious Mister Tom (the "small" cat), the young boy named Truth became fluent at revealing the truth.

Let's pull this young man into the story. Truth grew up to be a handsome 17-year-old boy, eager to develop into the stage of full maturity. He cleaned the roofs, salvaged oysters with sailors, and busied himself with the tedious housework of Godly cleanliness. Mister Tom observed silently by his side, occasionally helped out when he could, but for the most part wandered off quietly into the grass. Truth knew not what business was to occupy the cat, but, amusingly, he assumed Tom would chase after horny she-cats and lazily hunt mice and creatures that disturbed the soil of his precious territory.

Again, this he assumed. All cats did this (so it seemed) when they were released from their owners.

However, Mister Tom's story is a foreign tale to be told entirely. Little traces sewn together to weave the perfect story of a young cat who still fights, to this day, for righteousness. I can't make it more endearing than what it is, though it is a clever tale to be told indeed. So we will leave it at that.

Skip onward to a fine, summer day like any other, the resilient Mister Tom snuck into the cat's house. What happens next is not for the innocent ears.

Silky bodies bore the bare skin exposed to the cold air of a full moon as several people walked to and fro the large house. The cat found it distasteful, the smell of alcohol and unsanitary actions lifted in the air. He sneezed the whole way, but persisted through the hell of human lust and satisfaction.

Mister Tom's ears flicked, hearing the quiet moans closed off by cheap rooms occupied by men and their women (or sometimes men and their men, or if I dare say.... Never mind).

He disregarded the she-cats that purred in delight, petted by their lady friends. Whores primarily kept cats (preferably females) as pets; so it was dubbed, the Kitty Palace. Mister Tom bristled as his fur brushed against the greasy leg of a man.

"Haha, look at that tomcat! Trying to get your share, eh?" The man laughed whom Mister Tom could only guess was the owner of the terrible business - and his "employees" burst into laughter, shiny teeth tinted with yellow and red lipstick gleaming in the bright light.

The music rang and the shrill veins of men and women sang. People played pool downstairs, or simply drank the night away with their friends. Even women of the feminist movement came to the Palace just to have a good time. It was a sensationally disgusting social enigma.

The tom trotted up the dry wooden stairs, ignoring the bath of soulful voices echoing through the hallway. There was a special section of the Kitty Palace he needed to go to. From the moment he first set paw in the shack, he knew everything was going to change...

So, let me introduce you to Malimere. She was a youthful, beautiful she-cat with long black and ginger fur, a calico. Her soft fur caressed the gentle wave of snowy patches. Perfect, indeed. More so even; the most intelligent of the cats to occupy the Kitty Palace.

Now, every cat and every man and every woman who wasn't a whore knew of the unspeakable exchanges guarded upstairs; the illegal prositution of females (and even some males). Socialites didn't care; politicians didn't even dare. For some odd reason, the Kitty Palace was the capital of the social underground. Attracted like flies to an ugly, dusty light, people came from across the town to the miserable little shack without even the motive of sex. Most came just to socialize, entertained by the roaring musicians, the exquisite margaritas, the endless merrymaking...

Malimere knew this. The prositutes weren't the main attraction. She was graced with the luck not to watch her owner do her work and she was delighted to go where she pleased. Some she-cats weren't so lucky. Others suffered an even worst fate.

She did what she could to survive; like most cats, the call to share affection with another cat was unforgivably strong. Malimere understood that her mistress would not care for any kittens if she were to have some. She'd suffer in the streets, a "whorecat," known by name and appearance all across town by the way she walked.

Whorecats were especially promiscuous. Their tails were always up, ears always perked, and by the way they kept themselves cleaned you would have thought they had snuck some makeup from their owners. Close at hand, they experienced the boiling lifestyle of their human companions, getting drunk and adapting to the raw noises of the night's party.

That life was not for Malimere; so she distanced herself from the people, refused to be petted, but always comforted the tragic sadness of Riley, her owner. Some nights, the she-cat's fur would end up soaked in tears.

As Malimere followed the fearful scent of a young man, Mister Tom bumped into her. The two met eyes, their auras flaring with hostility.

Who are you?

Just call me Mister. I'm trying to find my human.

Really? Malimere sniffed, flicking her ear. This one?

Yes, ma'am... Mister Tom continued onward.

No cats can go there except...

Whorecats? He thought, amused.

Yes... Her fur bristled.

Okay then, lead the way.

Malimere trotted hastily down the hallway, slipping into a makeshift hole next to a bulky, black door. Mister Tom slipped in after her, halting.

What the hell?!