Рахма Крамбо - Guardian Cats And The Lost Books Of Alexandria

“In fact, now is the perfect time. Why don’t you recite it for us?”

Skitzo looked like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.

“Way to go, Skitzo! You stepped in that one,” yelled Tweezer.

“I can recite it,” offered Lily. “I’ve been memorizing it this week. Mum’s teaching me.”

“Okay, Lily. Let’s hear it.”

Skitzo, under his breath, mumbled, “Bootlicker.”

“Psycho,” Lily snapped back and scampered up to the front. In her small, confident voice, she began. “I will now recite the Code of the Dead Cats Society… a society created by our beloved Guardian Cats to help promote the cause of reading and other higher pursuits.”

She took a deep breath. “I swear that I will put the welfare of others before my own…” She trailed off and looked to Cicero for help.

“Interests,” he coached.

“Oh, yeah. I swear that I will endeavor to uphold honor in the face of cor-por-a-tions…”

“Corruption,” corrected Cicero, smiling.

“Co-rup-shun. Okay. Uh, where was I? I will seek to be courageous in the face of danger. I will seek to live at peace with others, but never, uh…”

“Hesitate.”

“Yes, never hesitate to defend the weak and helpless against the forces of evil and injustice.” In her softest voice, she said, “I will aim to be gentle spoken and not boastful of my good deeds.” Then she lifted her head and pushed out her chest, raising the pitch of her voice again. “And I will remain true to my word and loyal to the ideals and principles of the Dead Cats Society.”

“Well done, Lily! Thank you,” said Cicero. He turned to Marco. “Lily’s mum can help you learn the Code. I’m sure you will have it memorized in no time. Now, we usually have a Reader share something before I begin my story. Skitzo keeps us posted on tabloid news. Pudge reads from Garfield comics and Caffeina keeps us well supplied with the latest gossip from Cat Fashion.”

“Oh. Wow,” said Marco, trying not to appear stunned.

“You are reading an adventure, right? Why don’t you tell us about it?”

“Oh… maybe next time.”

“There’s no time like the present,” Cicero gently insisted.

Marco threaded his way through Gypsy’s newest batch of kittens. She spoke encouragingly to him. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. The first time is the hardest.”

All the cats were staring at him. Marco hung his head. He’d never had to give a book report before.

“A little stage fright? Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” Cicero said. "How about starting with the name of the book?"

He didn’t think this crowd would be much interested in his book, but he took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “The Three Musketeers,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Can’t hear you,” said Skitzo.

Marco looked at Cicero, who nodded to him. “The Three Musketeers,” Marco repeated in a stronger voice.

“The three what?” asked Caffeina.

“Musketeers. They’re like soldiers.”

"Okay, go on. Tell us what you like about the book," Cicero said.

"Well, I do like the hero in the story," Marco began uneasily, and then suddenly, the words came spilling out of him. "His name is d'Artagnan and he lived in the time of the French King, Louis the Thirteenth. He was rather a reckless and bold sort of fellow and managed to get himself into all sorts of predicaments.” Marco smiled, remembering how much he loved the book. “As soon as he arrived in Paris, he was challenged to a duel by three musketeers, and then their duel is interrupted and all of them had to fight the Cardinal's guards, and..."

“Awesome!” Caffeina was gazing fondly at Marco. The others all had a glazed look in their eyes.

Marco washed his face, stalling for time, but he didn’t have to worry about facing the rude alley cats any longer. Something much bigger had invaded.

Chapter 21: Black masks and attitude

They had black masks and attitude—raccoons, they must have been, although none of the cats had ever encountered a live one. There were only three, but their presence was intimidating and the cats had their hackles up.

“Did I say you could eat outta my dumpsta’?” said the biggest varmint, a disreputable looking raccoon with a deep scar on one ear.

The Dead Cats growled and hissed, but no one responded to the senseless question.

Except Tweezer. “Who do you think you are?”

“Oh, excu-use me. I didn’t know we needed intra-ductions. This is my territory, so ya better get used to me, ya mangy felines. Name’s Sting. Don’t forget it!”

All three raccoons had banded eyes, but Sting’s were particularly narrow and his wide mouth flaunted no-nonsense fangs.

Before Tweezer could reply, Lily piped up. “I don’t think so! We eat here all the time, so it’s our dumpster, mister, not yours. Besides, you’re interrupting our meeting.”

Sting was dumbfounded, probably for the first time in his life

“Yeah, pip-squeak? A meetin’? What kinda meetin’ do a bunch ‘a cats have?”

“We are the Dead Cats Society, I’ll have you know,” Lily blurted out.

Jaws dropped and the crowd fell silent.

“Dead cats?” Sting suddenly looked worried. “You’s are dead?”

“No, but you might be if you don’t scram!” yelled Tweezer.

“Right, I’m scared now. How ‘bout you boys? You scared? Tank? Crimmany?” Sting asked his two cohorts.

“We’re shaking in our boots, boss.”

“Sooo’s what do a bunch ‘a dead cats do? Tell ghost stories?” laughed Sting.

“That’s a good one, boss!” said Tank.

Lily explained, “We read.”

“Huh?”

“Read. You know, books.”

“You read what?”

“You don’t know what a book is, mister?”

“I know what a book is!” said Crimmany, obviously the runt of the gang.

“Shut up! Course I know what a book is. You think I’m stupid or somethin’?”

“I think you’re brain dead, that’s what I think!” Caffeina chimed in.

Not wanting to be left out of the argument, Skitzo pushed forward through the cats and declared, “This is a top secret meeting. If you don’t leave now, I’m callin’ the cops.”

“A secret meetin’?” asked Sting. “Ri-ight. You must be undercover cats and this is your secret hiding place… by the trash cans. I’m so impressed.”

“You have no idea who we are,” said Cicero. “So take your buddies and go find another dumpster.”

“And who might you be, ol’ man?” Sting asked. “You somebody I should be takin’ orders from?”

“You leave him alone!” said Pudge.

Bait tried a diplomatic approach. “I’m sure you don’t want a fight. Please let us continue with our meeting. There are other trash bins down the road.”

Sting, undoubtedly the lead gangster raccoon, was never diplomatic. “Boys,” he said, without looking at his co-conspirators. “We gots ourselves a sit-u-a-shun.”

With more grace than one would expect, the jumbo-sized raccoon swooped up Lily, the petite kitten who had so boldly challenged him. He held her out at arm’s length, as if she were a smelly sock. “Hey, kitty. How ‘bout readin’ to Uncle Sting?”

Lily hung limply in his grasp.

“Not talkin’, huh?” Sting yelled, shaking her like a rag doll. “Then I’ll take you home with me. You can read to me there. Come on, Tank, Crimmany. Let’s go.”

The Dead Cats had not been idle—they had positioned themselves for an attack. Four of them leaped directly at Sting. Gypsy, Lily’s mother, bit him on the leg, and Bait tried to block him. Pudge, the only one who came close in size to Sting, succeeded in knocking him briefly on his back.

Marco had climbed up the dumpster to gain some height and used the vantage point to take a nosedive, striking Sting directly in his midsection. It would have been an effective move, if Marco had been bigger. As it was, he simply bounced off the fat-bellied raccoon and landed on the pavement. Marco, who’d never said anything mean, couldn’t help but mutter ‘Fatso’ under his breath. Sting took a swipe at him but missed.