This is the story of a young writer. His name was Petros. He was spending Christmas in the sunny land of Greece. Each day he took his laptop outside and sat in the sunny, Greek sun and worked on his stunning Greek tan as he wrote his blog. Writing for his personal blog didn't make much in terms of money, but it was an enjoyable read - Petros thought, anyway - and his tan
was coming along nicely...
But then, one day, as Petros was sitting and typing away on one of life's many indescribable profundities, a group of people came along. One of them introduced himself as Philos, inviting Petros to come and play a game of cards. And Petros, eager to take a break from writing on his personal and very profound blog, and somewhat afraid that his skin was beginning to burn a bit, readily agreed.
In a moment of carelessness, he left his laptop lying on the whitewashed stone wall. This was very sad, for a laptop could not write a blogpost on its own, and it was not much at acquiring a tan either. But fortunately there happened along another writer, who was not much at writing blog posts or getting a tan either, and she was able to sympathise with the poor laptop's plight so well that Petros, observing the two of them exchanging sob stories so agreeably, suggested that this writer take a turn at writing his blog.
And so, while Petros gambled his livelihood away in a desperate game of Slap Jack, the writer tickety-tapped out a tragic story which, although undoubtedly containing more than the usual amount of pathos, is word-for-word true. No exaggeration. Whatsoever.
That writer... is me.
No, I am not Petros, nor am I Philos. My name doesn't even end in -os. It must remain hidden, for it is not mine to tell my own tale, but another's to blow it hideously out of proportion--I mean, recreate it with poetic exacticity.
(Here it must be known that the reader is not allowed to question whether there is any difference between out-of-proportionness and poetic exacticity, nor whether proportionness and exacticity are actually words. These things are a given.)
But Petros is unaware - oh, so unaware - about the nature of my true identity. He thought by giving me the computer to write a blogpost that he was doing nothing more than providing his gambling-crazy friends with a laugh. He never thought he was giving his laptop to ME, providing ME with internet access and the ability to communicate with my superiors and thus fulfill my super-secret-agent tasks.
Yes, I said super-secret-agent. For that is what I am, and (what's more) one of the feline variety. Silly humans think we're cute and whatnot. But while I bat 'harmlessly' at his keyboard and he and his friends cackle at me with glee, what I write could very well bring down the whole gambling industry. Slap Jack just became a boxing match - and the card-players ain't gonna win.
I've always been opposed to gambling, ever since I watched the nextdoor kitty squander his livelihood in betting matches with the neighborhood raccoons. Of course, everyone said the cat had been killed by the coons, and they weren't far off the mark - but what they didn't know (and what I had seen) was that the poor beast had to flee for his life because he owned the Masked Mob (terrors of the alleyway behind Mr. Jenkins' Meat Mart) billions in Kitty Chow currency, and he couldn't manage to procure the necessary compensation. I believe when last seen he was trying to placate them with dry food. They demanded fresh meat. It got ugly. I didn't stay to watch. But I saw enough to know that the whole industry had to be brought down.
Next step in my career to actually stopping gambling took place when I met a fella named ... actually, I don't know his name. His Family called him Tiger, although I got the notion that it was something more degrading than that. He was unwilling to give details. Pretty ginger beast, but a bit of an ego. Probably fancied me. Who wouldn't?
Anyway, I met him and he gave me all the right names and put in a good yowl for me. In a matter of days I was sent to this family, where I was promptly shown the expectations I would face. The summary of expectations came in the form of the current house cat, who was everything fluffy and fat and pampered. I objected, naturally. My feral roots would not bear such horrendous treatment. I must admit that on occasion, when I am scratched behind the ears or provided with an extra succulent meal, that I have been known to purr... but never on command, and never as a general rule. I knew young Petros would be in trouble, so I followed him to Greece, though he didn't recognize me. Everyone sees cats everywhere, and nobody bothers if one looks similar to another. Anyway, I got a haircut first; threw him off properly.
So, here I am, waiting for the right moment when I can run in and create enough havoc so Petros and I can grab the money on the table - they claimed it's a tip for the waiter, but
I know better - and make a run for it. I began this story by saying it was the story of a writer. Then I deviated so that it would seem to be the story of a cat. But neither of those is true. This is the story of the demise of the underground Greek Slap Jack gambling industry. And you are all going down. Yes, Philos and cronies, that means you. It starts.... now.
One... two... crouch... and... spring! -Annie the Feral Feline of Fleet Ferocity
