Postcards From Another Point Of View – 25 Sept – The Bitch From Borlänge Ch. 2

 

The Bitch From Borlänge

By Ellie of Cameron

&

Smoothy

Smoothy Intro: – 25 Sept 2016

Part 2

Smoothy:
I should say right off I have a bit of byslexia—you’re going to see typos . . . part of my charm. I can read and speak Swedish, English, German, and some Spanish when I’m in the mood. I write English with a Chicago 50’s accent, and have the grace of an Olympic athlete, gymnast, poetry in motion. Strong. I lift my own weight without effort—straight up, tree high, leap across large spaces in a single bound. I’m Superkat. Catcher of flys—that fast, and fluid, mercury in motion. In a fur coat I call vintage noir, spectrum of black to gray, hard to see in the dark, and softer than cashmere—this above white socks. Totally cool.

I’m tellin’ you all this so you know I’m not a pussy, and can smell a rat a long way off. I live on sardines, and am willing to work for sardines on occasion—short term jobs, if you know what I mean. I stay up late and don’t mind the odd snack at an all night diner. Scrambled eggs and toast are good. I’m curious about taste—curious by nature, one might say. I work with an extensive cognitive map that needs to know where things are—behind closed doors. It’s hard to keep me out of where I want to be.

I heard Johansson hired The Bitch. Word gets around. I call her Ellie, that’s her name. Good looking for a bog. A decent coat, although some think it could de thicker—I’m just sayin. Ellie’s good at sniffing, trying to sort out where I am by now, I guess. She’ll de a worthy challenge, fast across an open field. I don’t do open fields. I’m more an inside sort of kat, but I digress. The hound is looking for me. I can almost hear her snuffling. Time for me to hide.

*          *          *

It’s 3 a.m. in the Rosengaard district—Malmö, a good place to hide. Police don’t go here, and the locals don’t ask questions. Even rats are tolerated; some are members of the infamous ‘Survivors Club,’ an easy group to join, but hard to leave. A kind of blood-in, blood-out thing. I’ve never been a joiner.