American Catseye

Chapter 47

by DeeJAY

From the outside, the Lizaggio
is a brilliantly old casino
lit by thick, yellow bulbs
lined like old Christmas lights
along concrete trellises
that now over half-a-dozen
sliding glass entrances.

Since I don't weigh enough
to trigger hooman mechanisms
that swoosh the doors open,
I wait for a larger party
with drunken people
who won't notice
me weaving around their feet.

And I think I choose wisely,
until:

Drunk Hooman #X
Dude.

Drunk Hooman #Y
Yeah?

Drunk Hooman #Z
Ohmaigawd, ohmaiGAWD,
there'sh a cat!

Drunk Hooman #X
You shaw it, too?

Drunk Hooman #Y
Shuddap, both of you.
The shurcurtee—

Drunk Hooman #Z
Huh?

Drunk Hooman #Y
She—cure—uh—tee gaaard...!
Dey're lookin' at us.

I hurry into a shadow
between two gleaming branches
of slot machines
and hooman misery
while a uniformed individual
approaches the perceptive drunkards.

Then I realize
with horrified flehmen face
that the security guard
smells curiously similar
to the pesky iguana.

The uniformed individual
grins wickedly at the shortest
drunkard in the group
before grabbing their arm
and hissing, "This way, please."

I follow stealthily, army-crawling
from colorfully stained carpet
to the darkness
beneath an unused craps table,
then I see them
approaching the cage
surrounding the hooman money,
and I know it's now or never.

One of the drunk hoomans
cries about a misunderstanding
must have happened.
They don't know
the half of it.

I tuck my back legs
beneath me
and wiggle my rump
to assume a striking position.

The security guard
reaches for a key
to bring its prey
into its dungeon.

I sprint,
pouncing right as one drunk
screams that they've found the cat.

The lizardman's eyes
have shifted into golden orbs
slit by black pupils
brimming with rage.

Security Guard #1
Did you say, cat!?

I'm up his leg,
on his shoulder,
biting his neck,
drawing alien blood,
frightening hoomanity
and destroying reptilian vermin—
bringing what looks like
the body of a security guard
to the foot-smelly ground—

then I'm racing
from the scene,
no longer concerned
by the panic I'm causing
because I've slain the enemy,
and Cat Society #337
must be notified;

(I've also slain the enemy
without interrogating them
again
but this is what Philosopher Jones
should expect when I'm operating solo—)

except, when I reach
the sliding glass doors
beyond the craps table
and the slot machines,
where the colorful carpet
is stained with
the ghosts of vomits past,

three more lizardmen
stand at the ready,
holding laser-equipped batons.

Iguanas crawl on their shoulders,
at least five or six of them;
I can't connect to GalaNet
to request backup.

Security Guard #2
Capture the feline alive!