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Friday, February 17, 2017

The Bitch From Boränge – Chapter 11

The Bitch From Boränge


Chapter 11 – by Ellie                                                                                 18 February 2017

I was dog tired after a hard day, but still kilometres to go, I guessed. No sign of Smoothy, or lucky rat that got away. Seems odd they should be hanging out together—doesn’t smell right. In the mean time, I believe I’ve sniffed out what The Smooth is up to. There’s a kat show up ahead, a big one. World Show. International. I’ve read about it. ‘Kitties Karry Karat Weights of Gemstones’ Aftonbladet’s headlines read. Lulu Rashid is expected to appear this weekend, wearing a diamond collar worth millions. A bejewelled Siamese named Magnolia will also be showing off.  The Diamond Devas, they were called—the main attractions. Very interesting.

There was a Norwegian rat . . . some kind of diamond heist a couple years ago, I’m thinking as I trot up to the entrance. It might cost a bone or two to get inside the show—but I see the signs. “No Dogs!” I can’t believe it—Racist bastards, here, in Sweden. I’m starting to attract attention, so I leave, trot down the steps back onto Johannesgatan. Now What? Smooth is in there . . . and the rat. Is he there too? I decide to catch him and his little friend on their way out, but Smooth is not spontaneous, he plans things—takes his time.

I cross the street and take a snow bath in the park. Feels good to wash the dye off my expensive coat. I shake loose from the snow and see a bar across the street, The Fatal Feline. They might not refuse a drink, if I say who I am—won’t be on friendly crowd, I’m sure.

I stride inside the place like I’m familiar with it. Pussys everywhere, two coons, and a weasel that looks like part of an old coat. Furs stand on end and backs arch as I make an entrance, but whatever. I act nonchalant.

“Dog water, straight up,” I tell an ancient Persian katender.

“We don’t do dog water,” he says. “Kat beer’s is all we got.”


I don’t usually drink beer, but when I do, I make sure it’s not Kat beer. The Persian might be jerking my chain, but I throw him a bone and take my beer bowl to a window table. The customers settle down as I nurse my drink. More than a few of them are high on nip, but that’s someone else’s problem. I just need a spot with a view to wait out the next hour or so.

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