black cat


The black cat skittered away from the clash and rumble of the rolling bin with a flustered flick of energy. Clear of the offending clutter he paused to glare over his shoulder at the departing street sweeper, whose jet of water had blasted into the side street, forming tiny cataracts across the broken pavement and knocking over the bins.. Recollecting his cool-cat composure he strutted off down the alley, delicately stepping over puddles of fetid water.

It was his time of day, the night. His fetishistically groomed coat glistened jet black in the vague light drifting down from the streetlights. He was seen by no-one, he knew that. If he was being watched he would have known, and he would have been looking even cooler than he already was. Observation was always the catalyst for style in the black cat.

He'd appeared to many and in many masks over his life. He'd been seen by the superstitious type flitting across their path, delighting in their nervous faces as they walked carefully on down the road. He'd preened outside nightclubs as the social elite filed past him and almost looked as at-ease as he did, not quite having his style or flare as he casually walked away from their mere club. He appeared to other cats as the fashion master, dictating with a flick of his tail what look was "in" for the feline fraternity - at least so long as he felt like it.

He was the cat... and tonight he was on the prowl.

What was happening in the alley behind the hot clubs? Who was fighting in the garden of the Red Rooster drive through tonight? Which of the rich houses on the north side was having a garden party? Were the rough cats playing two-up in the catacombs under the bridge on Violin Road? He would know before too long, and as soon as he did it would be old news.

He wielded cat power in this town. When a cat was to be judged for a crime against feline society he presided over the catechism, sitting aloft from the other cats on the wide stone banister of the court house steps.

But of course, that was because he was the cat. Black cat.

He paused in his journey for a moment to watch a woman visible through the glass doors on the balcony of her plush warehouse studio-flat. He turned his head carefully so that the light from the flat would not catch his eyes.

Crouching behind a parked car, he watched as she stepped into a fancy evening dress and primped in front of the expensive wall mirror. She carefully selected the right jewellery from the fine teak jewel box on the dresser, carefully shutting the lid when she finished. She chose an overcoat from her extensive wardrobe with the leisurely ease of one who knows they are not watched, then sashayed around the flat turning the lights off. After pausing one final time in front of the mirror, she swept out of the door and away from the darkened flat.

The cat smiled, and swung easily up a convenient catwalk. He squatted in front of the lock on the glass doors and looked through into the flat. A line of moonlight reflected from the mirror onto the ornate jewel box. The cat grinned again, and went to work.



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