The Kitty Killer Cult

A Tiger Straight novel by Nick Smith

Chapter 1

THEY WERE KILLERS, all four of them. Cammy was the worst – one jab of his claws and he’d spear his prey. What his brothers lacked in dexterity they made up for in size and strength. They were efficient and complacent. None of them enjoyed death as much as Cammy.

He’d had a wicked glint in his eye since birth. Part of a litter of five, he’d practised murder on ticks and ants before he could see. After suckling at his mother’s belly, he’d cock an ear and listen for the scuttling – slap down a paw and flatten his catch. Not because he was hungry; it was in his blood. Killer instinct.

His brothers were made of kinder stuff. Beast, Grass and Skead had never been malicious. They’d always been poor, so when Cammy had suggested going into the execution business they’d agreed fast enough. They’d ploughed every penny into the tools of the trade – traps, spray, electrified grids, powder – and set up shop. It hadn’t taken them long to become the best bug bashers on the block.

Pest control was a dirty, thankless task. Cammy kept them motivated with his zeal. He loved to squash little critters, slice them, impale them, munch them up for supper. He’d remind his brothers they had a mortgage to cover, bills to pay, a sister to support.

Beast never let his squeamish side get in the way of a commission. Some cats get excited when they see a termite, smack their lips, dream of eating the little peckers. They know how good they taste. Beast would get a quiver in his belly, a queasy tremor as he watched the shiny bodies and spindled legs. He was no fan of bugs. If he unearthed a colony, he didn’t hesitate to destroy it.

Grass was the crew’s philosopher. Like Beast he was quick enough to give his prey the chop. Maybe even take some home for supper. Once they were dead his conscience would pay him a call. He’d start moralising, wondering what right he had to snuff out so many lives – no matter how tiny. Eating them wasn’t so bad, that was nature. So Grass was the crew’s fat philosopher.

He’d share his worries with Skead, the most money-eager of the pack. Skead would tell his twin to stop blethering and buy something nice with his paycheque. Skead had tall hopes for himself; he was going to buy his way out of Skid Row, spend money in the right places, impress the bigwigs and stake a place in the city. He hadn’t shared his dreams with his brothers, but he did admonish them for spending so much of their earnings on paint and wallpaper for their sister’s place. Keeping her happy seemed to make them happy.

The lads would often work late into the night – the critters they caught thrived in darkness. By the time they got home all they wanted to do was collapse in their beds, look forward to breakfast. They all knew what Grass was having.

One particular evening was spent knocking off rats. A cadre of the little terrors had run riot in a chip shop. The lads had stormed Arnie’s Emporium, famous for its fishcakes; they’d battered the rats and carried them out by their tails, a crate-load of slick filthy vermine carried to the local butchers. There the rats had been sold for a small amount, which Skead split into four pittances. He already had plans for his share.

At home they found a package waiting for them. Marlax, a poison in powder form and lots of it. None of the brothers could remember ordering the stock. Grass shrugged, promising he’d deal with it in the morning.

Exhausted, they hit the sack. Beast and Grass slept in one room; Cammy and Skead shared another. Come midnight Beast thought he heard a stifled moan. He was about to get up, investigate, when a paw clamped over his nose. He opened his mouth to warn his brothers, but no sound came.

Sinking into oblivion, he wondered if his victims felt the same fear, the same sense of disappointment. Of course not. The pests he killed weren’t cats. They were plain dumb animals.