Cat In A Topaz Tango

A random kick sends me spinning like a Frisbee to the edge of the dance floor. I heave myself upright, cheered to see that Mr. Matt has backed our adversary into the heavy velvet stage curtains and smartly rolled him up like a fried rice and bean enchilada.

Revived, I push myself to my feet and rush forward, slipping under the heavy curtains, risking the flamenco stamp of our contained enemy to leap high one last, desperate time. My shivs flare out, curved scimitars seeking purchase. Both my sword arms sink like pitons into the man’s rear face (except it is hardly his face, heh-heh) as I slide down the mountain of human flesh, leaving a grooved bloody trail of skid marks.

His screams of frustration are satisfying. This dude will be IDed by his ass for the next six weeks . . . if anyone can find out who he is and order a strip search.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, as one far more famed than I has noted.

The dude’s parting scream is muffled by the thick velvet curtains Mr. Matt is using for an impromptu winding sheet.

Dude! I would slap pads and palms with Mr. Matt if I did not have only ragged shivs to offer.

We did it!

Oh, wait. I will get no credit.

I am so bummed out. You did not notice my baaad, baad moves, my self-sacrificing footwork, my killer rock, rhythm, and rakes? I am to the dance floor born. I should win this thing.

What is new? My kind is always underestimated.

All I can do is race to the nearest elevator, eel into a car crowded with people too drunk to notice an unauthorized passenger, sneak onto the all-night celebrity-catering floor, operate a silent butler, silently, with my snagged nails, crawl back into the suite my roommate occupies, and cuddle up to her cell phone so she can get your call for help, Mr. Matt Devine.

Who should win this competition, paws down?”

The dude in black who is not carrying a grudge and a sword, only shivs and street soul.

Me and the ghost of Johnny Cash.

Okay, we fade to black. Together.

So.

Were it not for me, Mr. Matt would not be sitting here now an hour later in the vast living room we all share, having his slashed wrist and hand repaired by the hotel doctor.

This involves a process called “stitches” that Miss EK, Miss Mariah Molina, and I gather ’round to watch with equal curiosity. Only a child can rival a cat for a certain carnivorous attraction to blood and gore. Of course, we cats cannot coo, “Ooh, gross.”

Not that Miss Mariah Molina would care to be characterized as a “child,” but she still is one, as are various kits I know, like Gimpy.

Mr. Matt is pale under his spray tan, but then he always was. It comes with that yellow hair of his.

Mr. Rafi Nadir has ordered from room service a gleaming topaz liquid called Scotch despite Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s disapproving scowl. In fact, he has ordered an entire bottle of this Caledonian beverage on the tab of the LVMPD and is imbibing himself, as is Miss Temple.

“The cuts are not very deep and will heal well,” Dr. Cuthbert is saying to Mr. Matt. “With rest you can perform this evening, although I recommend against it. With the palm slash, you can expect tingling and loss of feeling for some weeks. Blood loss is never as flagrant as it looks, and you did an excellent job of keeping the artery compressed by elevating your cocked elbow. Smart. I understand you are committed to this dance contest. A pressure wrapping should be fine for now, and can be disguised by the show’s clever costumers. I suggest a Michael Jackson glove approach. I will stand by during the show to ensure we have no unseemly bloodshed.”

“From a preexisting wound,” Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina adds sardonically.

This “sardonically” is a lovely word that means she is being sarcastic and is in no way convinced that this contest will not produce future bloodshed.

She is a woman after my own heart in this respect. It is obvious that some bloodthirsty souls have been drawn to this display of the terpsichorean arts. That is an ancient Greek term for their goddess of dance, and we all know how good the ancient Greeks were at war, gore, and dark tragic family secrets.

Luckily, cats were not the factor in that culture that they were in the Egyptian, or the body count would have been much higher.

I must admit I am feeling particularly bloody-minded at the moment and take the first opportunity to slink out of the suite (with the doctor) to consort and consult with the cat known as Topaz.

As a famous mascot she will have lots of first-whisker lickings when it comes to gossip about the celebrities to whom we are accessories both before and after the fact.

(Besides, I know who will be sleeping in my bed the rest of the night. Mr. Matt will recuperate under my roomie’s fond care in Miss Temple’s bedroom here.)

No room on the bed for Midnight Louie.

As soon as I enter the casino area, I am ambushed and spurred by a single scimitar claw to dodge under a twenty-one table.

Rich eyes of pure gold with the pupils a pair of dagger-thin slits interrogate me.