Sniffing disdainfully, I shoot a baleful glare at Jojo before turning around and presenting my back to him.  Curling my tail around me, I stare across the cemetery and feign fascination at the sight of the crazy caretaker mowing the lawn.  He has, for reasons best known to himself, a white handkerchief tied around the top of his head.  Damn Jojo!  I'm too annoyed with him at the moment to even contemplate what I'd like to share with him in respect to the errors -- plural, most definitely plural -- of his ways.

// Sore loser // he comments smugly.  If cats could smirk right now he'd have one plastered over his silly looking face.

Although I'm trying to control my composure, my tail twitches despite my efforts and I can feel my resolve faltering.

// Admit it Mish, that last one puts me ahead in the points tally.  Why don't you just accept that you're beaten? //

That is it!  My tail switching tetchily, I retort // I most certainly am not beaten.  As per usual Jojo, you're deluding yourself. // To hell with him.

// Even you can't deny that that last one was a supreme point scorer. //

I sigh.  // I'm not denying that it was quite... ah... good.  All I'm attempting to get through your thick skull is that, seeing as there was no designated time limit on the game, the competition is still running. // And that's as close as I'm going to get to sharing a compliment with him.

// You'll never score higher // Jojo replies, still sounding nauseatingly smug.

// Never say never to me you common garden-variety moron.  You should know by now that I will *always* beat you. //

// Not this time you won't. //

// You *seriously* believe that? // If he does then those antibiotics that were shoved (before being picked up off the floor after they'd been spat out, sworn at, and shoved back in again) down his throat have possibly succeeded in making him stupider.  I wouldn't have thought it possible, but there you go.  Yet more proof that drugs are bad for you.

// The Fat Cows have gone to Manchester to visit her family in the various prison cells they inhabit and they're the prime targets.  Without them who have you got to practice on? //

Snorting delicately, I start to lick my paw.  I fail to see why I need to waste my breath replying to Jojo's query.  Surely it's obvious even to him.

// Don't tell me, let me guess...  Sam, right? //

Give the boy a bowl of cream!  He got in first try.

// You don't perhaps think he's going to freak if he endures much more? //

// It wasn't me who waited until he was carrying three weeks worth of dishes out of the dishwasher before deciding the time had come to chase an imaginary mouse around the kitchen. //

// Ha!  Says she who darted between his legs as he walked up the stairs carrying a laptop. //

// You're just jealous that the death of the laptop was worth quadruple the points that the dishes were. // Not to mention, in his attempt to save the computer, he crashed into Chris' back and they both fell down the stairs.

Jojo snorts back laughter.  // I will admit, seeing as I'm clearly more magnanimous than you, that that, until today, was the winning point scorer. //

// Gee.  I'm not worthy.  Truly.  You flatter me with your words. //

I'm not going to admit it -- no way, no how -- but Jojo does actually have a point.  What he managed to achieve was spectacular, the kind of thing that will cause amusement for years to come, but that's entirely beside the point.  How dare he assume to have won the competition simply because our main targets have waddled off into the sunset.  As we were just discussing, Sam too is a prime target.  Even Chris comes under attack when there's nothing else going.  I have my suspicions however that he may have actually cottoned onto our game and is going out of his way to thwart it.  Take yesterday morning for example.  There I was outside the shower, all ready to simply *materialise* under his feet when, out of nowhere a towel came flying through the air.  Needless to say it landed on me and by the time I'd struggled free Chris was long gone.

He knows.  Don't ask me how, but he knows all about our competition to see who can cause the most surprises to poor unsuspecting humans.  Points are rewarded on a number of different factors.  The physical adeptness of the target (the Fat Cows are worth less than Chris or Sam in respect to this factor because they are both about as manoeuvrable as double decker buses), the creativity of the language shouted at your retreating back, the damage caused (and this is both physical injury and damage to inanimate objects), the difficulty of the attack (stair assault is worth far more than merely attacking on the flat), whether or not something is hurled at you other than abuse, and so on and so forth.  The whole laptop followed by Sam followed by Chris tumbling down the stairs was brilliant because it covered all of the above.

Until today I honestly didn't think it could be beaten.

Bloody Jojo.

It's not fair.

He should have told me that Mrs Fat Cow had managed to get her sweaty hands on some Viagra and was planning a morning of... ack, ack and double ack... romance with hubby.  The first I heard of it was when Jojo rocked up this morning and, insisting that I come with him, made me get out of bed.  He wouldn't even tell me what for.  All he'd tell me was that he didn't want me missing the event of the decade and that I had to come with him.  I was not impressed and basically only went with him to shut him up.  Truth be told I was hoping that whatever he wanted to show me would fail spectacularly and that way I'd have something to hold over him for the rest of the day.

It was not, under no circumstances, supposed to purrfectly follow his plan.

I can still see it clearly in my mind.  The Goddess knows I'll probably never truly be rid of it.  Like all traumatic events, I'll probably live with the image for the rest of my life.

Mrs Fat Cow.  Sheer pink and red lace mini-tent.  Cold, leftover pizza to help set the mood.  Joe Cocker growling in the background.  Handcuffs attached to the bed head.  Mr Fat Cow naked save for icky natural furry body covering.  Feathers.  Chocolate topping.  Getting hot and heavy and sweaty and grunting and groaning and writhing and doing things that are against the laws of good taste and...

And then...

... Just as I was contemplating throwing up in Mr Fat Cow's generic trainer...

Jojo went for it.

He...

This is sick.  It really is.

He...

He *disrupted* the point of entry.

Kamikaze had nothing on it.  If he hadn't had enough speed up as he bounded on the bed and bolted between them then it would have been the end of him. I don't know what would have been worse.  Being pounded by their flabby, stained with food flesh or simply being far, far too close to the main event.

My fur crawls even thinking about it now.

Anyway, it goes without saying he survived and all hell broke loose. Language of the like that would have been at home in a Tarantino movie was bellowed and screeched.  Pizza, funny looking small metal devices, pillows and, well, just about anything within reach was thrown at us.  Moving faster than I've ever seen them move before, they rolled off the bed and attempted to give chase.  Mrs Fat Cow made it as far as the bedroom door before, puffing and panting, she had to come to a stop and lean against the doorframe for support.  Mr Fat Cow, high on the effects of the Viagra, fared better and actually made it to the top of the stairs.  Actually, thanks to the conveniently -- depending on your point of view -- placed skateboard casually left there he rather quickly made it to the bottom of the stairs. I'd say, by the angle of his splayed limbs and the way the skateboard landed on a kinda delicate appendage, that he would have needed more than Viagra to have felt in the mood again.

Yeah.  Okay.  Jojo did good.  But I'll be damned if I'm going to admit it to him.  I'm confident that I'll be able to get my own back.  If not on Sam then maybe I'll turn my attention to the posse of inbred, baggy pant wearing cretins that have taken up residence in the house while Mr and Mrs Fat Cow are in Manchester.  Little Miss Ex-Goth, unfortunate offspring of the Bovines and home-girl in training, has, in her parents' absence, called an open house and half the lame ass gang element in the neighbourhood have heeded her call.  If they weren't all so obviously tragic they'd be funny.

Not, mind you, that tragic even begins to come close to describing these pathetic creatures.  DJ Stayer, or, if you are privileged enough to know the wanky hand gestures that accompany the abbreviation, Stay, is still the beau of choice for Little Miss Ex-Goth.  Not, I hasten to add, that prospective suitors have been banging her door down.  I think, given their general lack of anything that would make them appealing humans, that they deserve each other.  Stay, after not surprisingly copping some serious shit about his penchant for Euro-pop, has embraced, with all of his two IQ points, rap culture.  Even Little Miss Ex-Goth, whose actual name I believe is Martha, is getting into the swing of things and is busily trying to convince all and sundry that her name is really Shakaar.  Why she thinks she wants to be known as Shakaar is not something I believe I'll ever know.

Stay and Shakaar, having boned up on their rap FAQs from the Internet access at school, have somehow managed to form their own little posse of loser friends.  It's hard to say what's funnier.  The poor deluded fools themselves, or the fact that they honestly seem to believe that they are truly 'hangin' in da' hood'.

Take Dex (real name Nigel) for example.  Dex has a car.  Rumour has it that it was once a Ford Escort.  Not having seen any proof of this for myself I can neither confirm nor deny this alleged fact.  Dex's car is a work of art. Chrome alloy wheels (bald tyres but hey, appearances are far more important than safety), tinted windows, an exhaust system that rumbles like a giant with indigestion and a spoiler that was stuck on by someone obviously both colour blind and drunk.  Not only is it an entirely different blue to the rest of the wreck, but it is also crooked.  As if these improvements weren't enough the car has also been lowered.  Lowered so far that when it drives down our street it bottoms on the storm drain that crosses the intersection. We know the damn thing's on it's way long before it pulls up out the front. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that at night the underbelly of the car glows X Files green.  The posse think this is way cool.  I think it looks as though it's radioactive.

While all of this is undeniably special, my personal favourite is the huge sticker that disfigures the back window.  It's supposed to be, or so I believe, the symbol for the Wu-Tang Clan.  This is all well and good.  I've even seen it on other cars.  Thing is though, those other cars are owned by people with itty bitty bits of intelligence and these people buy stickers that can be seen through.  They do not draw the emblem themselves on black book covering and superglue it onto their window.  Like Dex did.  I've sat on the bonnet of the stupid car in the middle of an incredibly sunny day and have not been able to see a thing through the back window.  How he's managed to avoid being pulled over by the police escapes me.  It really does.

Then there's Spanner.  Spanner (George to his family) doesn't have a car. He does, however, have a somewhat incredibly ugly bulldog by the name of Snoop.  Snoop, of course, as in the word's most evil looking man, Snoop Doggy Dogg.  Call me cynical but, given the Snoop's advanced age (evident by the fact that he's as deaf as a post and can sleep next to the stereo speakers blaring Eminem out of them at a volume to wake the dead as though he doesn't have a care in the universe) I can't help but think Snoop was actually originated after 'Snoopy' of The Peanuts comic strip.  Not, even if I could, that I'd share my theory with Spanner.  Nope.  Not on your life. If Mr Doggy Dogg is the world's most evil looking man then Spanner comes a close second.  Beady eyes, almost as wide as he is tall, thin lips, carefully cultivated facial hair shaved into stupid looking shapes, big fuck off fake gold rings on most fingers, thick neck, shaved head - the guy's a freak.  I'd bet everything Chris has on the fact that Spanner will be seeing his eighteenth birthday celebrated in jail.  Always got a plan does Spanner. Last month's was growing marijuana plants in the Bovines' back garden.  Who knows, if Snoop hadn't eaten the seedlings they may even have been onto a winner.

This week's great plan appears to be a little bigger and a little more out of their admittedly limited league than usual.  Drugs.  Not your everyday run off the mill spliff, the hardcore stuff.  He and Dex simply arrived with it this morning.  Cocaine by the looks of the small cubes littered over the coffee table as I wondered through there earlier.  They seemed stunned by the sight of it, as though they didn't know what to do with it or even how they happened to have come across it.  Even Stay, who could talk underwater, was silent.  This, more than the fact the idiot posse of would be if could be home boys and girls had their hands on cocaine, worried me and I left them to it.

// So, tell me Princess, how do you propose on attempting to beat me? //Jojo queries, interrupting my reverie.

// Leave it with me.  Trust me, you'll know when I make my move // I retort airily, still not bothering to turn around and look at Jojo.

// Are you gonna try your luck with the posse? //

// Maybe, maybe not.  I haven't decided yet. //

// More like you wouldn't have a clue. //

// You just keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy. //

// Where do you think they got the coke from? //

// Hang on!  I'll just consult my crystal ball shall I? // Idiot.  How the fuck would I know where they got it from.  Perhaps it was on special at Tescos.

// Sore loser // Jojo repeats.

// Whatever // I yawn, standing up and stretching languidly.  // I've had enough quality time with idiots for the time being and am going inside. //

// Ooooooh!  You're sulking! //

// Am not. //

// Am too. //

// Go to hell. //

// Well I'm going to go and find Uncle Charlie and share with him my glory. //

// Knock yourself out. // No.  Please.  Really. Be my guest.  Knock yourself out.

// Feel free to call me when you finally get hit by inspiration. //

// Feel free to get hit by a lorry. //

// Oh Mish I love it when you talk dirty. //

// Then this will really make your day...  Fuck off! //

With that, and not waiting for a response, I extend my tail in the air and undulate away from Jojo.  While I know I could pass through the Bovine's again and check out what the posse are up to (whether they've awoken from their coke induced coma yet), I really don't feel that way inclined. Knowing the unfortunate creatures like I do, the drugs are bound to have been stolen by someone far bigger, stupider and scarier than they are and, let's face it, will no doubt be wanting their property back.  I don't, and I'm quietly confident of this, want to be anywhere in the vicinity when this actually occurs.  Going back home is a far more sensible option.  Besides, having been rudely dragged out of bed this morning I could do with a nap.

Thinking happy thoughts of burying myself under the duvet, I reach my cat-door and slink inside.  The moment my tail is fully cleared of the door I can sense that something is wrong.  I can't put my paw on the source of my unease, but nonetheless know that something isn't right.  Sounds of movement emanating from the front door reach my ears but I can tell instinctively that it is neither Sam nor Chris returning home.  Immediately on edge, my fur prickles and, keeping to the skirting board, I meander cautiously out of the kitchen.

While I obviously have no real preconceived ideas in relation to what I might encounter, what I do see does actually manage to shock me.  Mortify me even.

Two men, two *huge* men (mental note, I was wrong about Spanner being the world's second evilest looking man.  His rating has now dropped to fourth), come lumbering up the stairs and burst into the room.  They look like white versions of Iced Tea and Ice Squared.  Oooops.  My mistake.  Ice-T and Ice Cube.  Resplendent in black, puffy Adidas jackets, white Adidas trainers, black, with the three stripes down the leg, Adidas track pants and, knock me down with a feather, white Adidas t-shirts, they look like thick as fuck clones.  Unlike Spanner's jewellery, the multiple rings on their podgy fingers and the thick chains around their bull necks have the unmistakable gleam of real gold.  They're both so steroided up that they walk as though they've been riding a horse, without a break, for the past week.  I doubt they could get their thighs together if they tried.  Conversely, at the same time I suspect their thighs are so strong that they could snap necks between them.

Stating the bleedin' obvious here, they do not look like Chris or Sam's type of people.  Well, that's not exactly true.  They look like the sort of person they'd arrest for being up to no good.  Heh, I know!  They look like drug dealers.

Oh.  Shit.

They look like the sort of men who'd have cubes of cocaine lying around that, when they discovered it missing, would stop at nothing to get it back.

Again.  Oh.  Shit.

"So, where do ya reckon the thievin' bastard woulda hidden da stuff?" growls one pissed off drug dealer to the other pissed off drug dealer.

"Dunno.  But it's gonna be fun findin' out," replies pissed off drug dealer number two.  In order to reiterate his words he stalks bow legged over to the television and promptly knocks it off its stand.  The sound, as it crashes to the polished wood floor and shatters, is deafening.  I can feel the impact reverberate along the floor and stare at the intruders with mounting disbelief.  Brain dead thugs.  Not only are they stupid enough to be of the opinion that lots of things get hidden in the backs of television sets, they also seem to think that this appears to be the home of drug thief.

Morons.

Personally I'd hardly think it would take a mental genius to differentiate between my home and the Fat Cows' hovel.  Perfectly manicured front lawn, mowed fortnightly by some man that comes around with a lawn mower, versus a lawn that is more dirt than actual lawn and is covered in ugly gnome statues and car wrecks.  What grass there is stands higher than the Guinness cans that also litter the yard.  Now, I ask you, which house do you think would be more likely to contain stolen cocaine?

This one.  Of *course*.

Feeling that a spot of self-preservation is in order, I tiptoe over to the sofa and quickly get under it.  From here I can see their thick ankles as, 'mother fucking this, and mother fucking that,' they proceed to trash the place.  I begin to feel as though I'm in the middle of a war zone.  The noise is even worse than that of the so-called music the posse play.  Hell, come back Eminem, all is forgiven.  I'm not very pleased at myself for hiding, but don't know what else I could do.  If I get too close to the oafs then something could land on me and, well, that would hardly achieve anything.  Oh...  Okay.  Fine.  I admit it.  I'm scared.  There is stupid-stupid, and there is stupid-crazy and these two fall into the latter category.  This, in turn, means they are free from the confines of even having to know the difference between right and wrong.

"Where da fook is da coke?"

"How da fook would I know ya dumb mutha!"

Profound stuff.

"Maybe we 'ave da wrong gaff."

"Da wheels are out da front.  Has da be da right place."

And that, ladies, gentlemen and felines, is what passes for logic in the minds of rock-apes.

Suddenly, in the middle of all the crashing and 'da' banging, I hear it -the sound of a key being turned in the front door.  Wonderful, this just keeps getting better and better.  Don't tell be it's more Adidas clad twits come to finish the job.  Hang on...  I *recognise* these sounds.  Light, slow footsteps coming up the stairs...  Chris.  And he's wounded.

And alone.

Typical.  Sam's never around when he's actually needed.

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber beat me to him.  While I bolted out from under the sofa and ran, as quick as my four legs could carry me, towards the stairs, the others were quicker.  How, given their size and general appearance of kebab fed lack of fitness, they achieve this is beyond me.

Chris, his left eye black and blue and his blood stained shirt hanging open to display wrapped ribs, is completely helpless.  Not looking where he's going, and most likely existing in a painkiller induced fog, he simply didn't stand a chance.  They're on him before he's finished hobbling up the stairs.  One grabs him by the collar, pulling him onto the landing, while the other displays a rare example of intelligence and pats him down for weapons.  What he finds -- the two, never leave home without 'em, guns --seems to impress him and he coos appreciatively.  "Nice pieces man."  He then promptly pockets them.  His mate, choosing to ignore the added bonus of the guns, roughly shakes Chris as though he were nothing more than a rag doll.  All Chris, who's obviously already in a bad way, can do is stare at the man blankly.  While his mouth moves up and down, no sound is coming out.

"Where's our coke, mutha fucka?"

"Excuse me?  I really have no idea..." The fist slamming into his ribs silences Chris mid sentence and, gasping, he falls to his knees.

I see red.  Not just your every day red either, *fire-engine* red.  How *dare* this invertebrate hit Chris!

// Asshole // I comment blandly, giving up on remaining in hiding.  It's one thing skulking around whilst on my own, but there's no way I'm just going to stand by and watch them rough up Chris.

Alerted to my presence, the gun stealing thug looks down and favours me with a goofy, shit eating grin.  "Aw...  Look at what we got 'ere.  A cute little pussycat.

// Stop it.  Please.  Any more great examples of your observation skills like that and I won't be able to cope. // Wanker.

Bending down, he extends a hand towards me as though he's entertaining delusions of actually being able to pet me.  Yeah.  Right.  Over my dead body.

Lashing out with my claws, I effortlessly remove some of the skin from his hand and hiss. // Fuck off! //

"Leave it alone Nate," his punch happy friend tells him, scowling.  "We ain't got time to play with no pussy.  Remember, we're here for da coke."

"Da coke, right," Nate nods, cradling his hand to his thick chest and looking for all the world as though he wants to cry.

"Now, you, lemme try again," he who isn't Nate, growls, hauling Chris up from the floor and shaking him again.  "Where's our fookin' coke?"

"What fucking coke?" Chris somehow manages to query.  Poor boy, he looks as though he really wants to throw up.

"Da fookin' coke you stole from us dis mornin'," Nate bellows.  "What fookin' coke did ya think we was talkin' about?"

"Look...  You've made a dreadful mistake here..."

By the sound of Chris' forehead coming forcefully in contact with the wall I'd say he's going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up.

*If* he wakes up...

He's not moving.

// Now look what you've done // I shriek, running over to Chris and prodding him with my paw.  // C'mon, wake up.  Don't let these bastards win. //

"Aw, da pussy's worried about 'im," Nate, who truly is the observant one, murmurs.

"Yeah, a pussy for a pussy," the other fuck wit chuckles, his expression showing that he's clearly astounded by his own verbal brilliance.

// I'll give you pussy, asshole // I hiss, barely controlling a sigh of heartfelt relief when Chris moans.  He doesn't try to get up, nor does he move, but at least he's alive.  It's now official, I'm going to get these two suckers if it's the last thing I do.

// What in the name of Bast is going on here? //

Jojo!

There being a first time for everything, I'm pleased to see him.  Ecstatic in fact.

// Remember the conversation we had earlier? // I whisper, sidling over to him.

// Mmm...  That I'd know when the time had come for you to make your bid for my competition crown... //

// Right.  The time is here.  These turkeys have got to pay. //

// Want help? //

// Go for it.  This is personal.  Fight dirty and fight hard. //

// With pleasure. //

Jojo, I'll say this for him, is, in his own way, loyal to both Sam and Chris.  He knows he's got it made with them.

"Look!  Da pussy cats are talkin'," Nate mutters.  "Wonder what about."

"How da fuck would I know?  Jesus Nate, you ain't half dumb sometimes."

"No need to be like that Zero, I was just wonderin', that's all," Nate pouts.

Jojo and I roll our eyes at each other.  Talk about easy targets.  I'm almost envious of Chris being unconscious and as such missing the eruditeness of these two.

// Ready? // I whisper, not liking how Nate has retrieved one of Chris' guns from his pocket and, his eyes glazing over, is staring at it lovingly.

// After you. //

Right.  Not allowing myself time to think about what I'm doing, or the fact that we're essentially plan-less, I launch myself at Nate's ankles.  His Adidas track pants being gratifyingly thin, my claws sink through them with ease and I attach myself to the skin underneath.  A surprisingly girly sounding shriek escapes Nate's lips and, as I'd been hoping, he bends down in order to attempt to pull me off.  Never being one to miss an opportunity, I relinquish my grip on his shin only to use his outstretched arms to fly up to his shoulder.

"What da fook?" he hollers, hopping around from foot to foot and trying to shake me off.  He's wasting his energy.  Claws are nothing if not good for gripping into things and, well, I ain't going anywhere until I myself choose to.  Hanging on for dear life, I feel as though I'm on some sort of carnival ride.  Twisting my claws a little, I ensure both maximum grip and maximum pain.  Quickly looking around I see that Zero has made the mistake of picking Jojo up and now has both of Jojo's back legs scratching furiously into his forearm.

"Fook!  Mutha fucka!  Fookin' crazy animal."

As I think I mentioned before, truly profound stuff indeed.

Sensing my platform trying to steady the gun, I know I have to make my final, make or break, move.  To my delight, what with all his hopping up and down, Nate has inadvertently lurched dangerously close to the top of the stairs.  Really, I couldn't have asked for a better set up.  Taking a deep breath, I detach myself from his shoulder and, twisting, launch myself at his face.  There's some sci-fi movie, the title of which, what with all the excitement, is currently escaping me, where some sort of alien progeny attaches itself to faces of hapless humans...  This is the pissed off feline version of the scene.

Nate is a lost cause.  Arms flapping in the air as though he hopes to fly away from what can't be happening, his footing begins to desert him.  For a moment we both sway before gravity finally gets the better of the fat oaf and he begins to tumble down the stairs.  Once he's in motion I jump lightly away from him and land on the banister.

// See you in hell! //

Take that asshole.

He lands at the bottom of the stairs and -- woo-hoo! -- doesn't get up.  His right arm and his left leg shoot out in angles that I'm positive the human body is not designed for.

// Watch out Mish!  Incoming! // Jojo howls, suddenly joining me on the banister.  // I followed your exemplary lead and combined the face with the stairs // he adds cheerfully, his attention fixed firmly on Zero who, still swearing, is careening down the stairs to join his partner in crime.  His face, I'm pleased to note, is covered in scratches.

// Well done. //

// I thought so. //

Zero, being the arguably luckier of the pair, has Nate to cushion his fall and -- damn, damn and damn again -- doesn't appear to break any bones.  It's very disappointing.

It's also potentially fatal.

Shit.

Steam being all but visibly coming out of his ears, he slowly begins to drag himself upright, his gaze falling on the gun still clutched in Nate's hand in the process.  A malevolent grin crosses his face and he reaches for the gun.

"You'll get what's comin' to ya!" he spits, struggling to get the gun away from the unconscious Nate who appears to have a death grip on the thing.

// Now what? // Jojo queries.  // Do we both run at him and hope for the best? //

// Er... // I hadn't thought this far ahead.  Trying desperately to think of something to do to avoid being shot, I nearly fall off the banister with delight when I hear the sound of a keys once again being fitted in the front door.  // Now we sit back and watch why Sam is my second favourite human in the universe // I proclaim happily.

// You have a funny way of showing it // Jojo comments drily.

// Shut up and watch. //

// Yes Ma'am. //

// Shut up. //

"I'm gonna get ya now!" Zero bellows, obviously so furious that he's oblivious to the fact that we're about to get a new arrival.

"Pardon me?"

Yee-ha!!  Sammy!  If I thought I was happy to see Jojo then words simply cannot express how ecstatic I am to see Sam.

"I think you're mistaken, you know," Sam adds politely, very calmly pointing his gun directly into Zero's exceptionally surprised looking face. "Personally I don't think you'll be getting anything other than an extended prison sentence."

The last thing out of Zero's mouth, before a well aimed fist sends him down to join Nate on the floor, is a decidedly whispered, "Mutha fucka..."

Pleased that our nemeses are out cold and that we've well and truly won (not that I ever really doubted we wouldn't), I jump off the banister and run back over to Chris.  While his eyes are now at least open, he still doesn't exactly look with it.

// We did it // I whisper, licking his cheek.  // We fixed the nasty big fat homies for you // This earns me what I think is a groan of gratitude.

"Chris!"

Yeah, yeah.  Better late than never here bounds Sam to the rescue.

"Oh my God!  What happened here?"

// Long story.  Call the cops and let them deal with it. //

// Couldn't have put it better myself // Jojo murmurs, joining us and rubbing around Sam's legs.

// I know you couldn't have // I retort, giving Chris' cheek another quick lick.

"Chris...  Oh God...  I'm sorry...  Why didn't you call?  If I'd known..."

"S'okay Sam," Chris interrupts slowly and with effort, "Mishy and her friend saved me...  You weren't even needed..." With his glorious comment still hanging in the air, Chris promptly passes out again.

And thus missing the Kodak moment worthy expression on Sam's face...

Shame.  I don't think I've ever seen such a *pained* look before.  Sucking too many lemons had nothing on it.

// So, Sammy, gonna thank us for being here when you weren't? //

"Don't start...  Just don't you start..." Sam mutters, shaking his head.

Me?

Little ol' me?  I wasn't going to say a *thing*.

~*~

From what started off as a pretty crap day has, if I do say so myself, ended rather well.

Nate and Zero are where they belong, behind bars.  A passing patrol car took an interest in Dex's car and, upon discovering that it was lacking a current MOT certificate, had it towed away.  The posse, not surprisingly, took objection to this and, ranting and raving, loped out to see what was happening.  The two police officers, knowing trainee trouble when they saw it, didn't take too kindly to being screamed at and decided to extend their explorations to inside the house.  Where, of course, they found the coke. It was fabulous.  Two more police cars had to come to take them all away.  I really thought it couldn't get much better than that, but then Mr and Mrs Fat Cow returned unexpectedly (apparently the relatives they'd gone to visit were all in solitary confinement for the weekend for being a menace to the general population in the maximum security prisons they called home) and joined the affray.  They too are currently behind bars for resisting arrest.

Chris, thankfully, is well on the road to recovery.  He even managed to convince the doctor that he didn't need to stay overnight in hospital, which I think has to be seen as a really good sign.  The doctor didn't look overly convinced, but eventually he capitulated.  Whether this has anything to do with the fact that I'd taken in upon myself to sit on his lap and knead him or not isn't something I'm sure of.  Either way he left Chris with yet more painkillers and went on his way.

Our home pretty much being destroyed by Nate's and Zero's rampage for the drugs that were never there, Sam, his expression still lemon-sucky, magnanimously stated that Chris had to come back to his place.  He then, after taking one look at the pout on his partner's face, begrudgingly offered to take me along as well.  Then, after a heavy sigh, he mumbled that Jojo was also *more* than welcome to come along.

So, here we are.

Sam, a bottle of red wine having softened his mood, is sitting at the dining table, muttering under his breath at his new laptop.  Apparently, if we're to believe his list of complaints, it isn't as good as his old one, it will *never* be as good as his old one and that he'll mourn his old one until the day he dies.  Jojo, after having sniffed -- and most likely *marked* --every room in the flat, is sound asleep on Sam's lap.  Sam, I note, when not tapping impatiently on the laptop, surreptitiously strokes Jojo, causing him to purr loud enough for me to hear him from over here.

Our last adventure, having taken on somewhat of a dangerous slant, we've decided, has heralded the end of our competition.  For the sake of the peace we've called it a draw.  I'm happy with this.  Besides it wouldn't be fair on either Chris or Sam to target them now.  Chris because he's injured and Sam...  Well Sam did arrive at a very advantageous time.

Chris, Nurofened up and, looking on the bright side, suitably placated that he's going to get a new home entertainment system out of his insurance agency through this disaster, is fast asleep on the sofa.  Sam, attempting to prove that he's as adept at looking after his partner as we felines are, is going out of his way to ensure that Chris is comfortable.  It's a truly lovely thing to behold.  He even, with *no* gnashing of teeth, fed us *all* steak for dinner.  I was most impressed.  It was the good stuff too.

As for me, I'm in my favourite spot and am curled up close to Chris.  His hand rests lightly on my back and I welcome its weight.

While anything could have happened today, as usual, alls well that ends well.