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NOTE: Ask before putting in other archives, thank you. Feedback is the air authors breathe. We are odd so we welcome with open arms any kind of negative feedback too. Can you believe it’s 4 in the morning and he has the gall to come sauntering down the corridor hair all over the place, clothes put on all anyhow, slitted sated satisfied eyes, positively reeking of sex… with whom – er… grammar – whom with? Turn it around any way I want I can’t smell whom it was on him and *that* takes some doing. Sauntering I said? Nah, swaggering more like, like the cat who ate the canary, pad pad pad all lithe boneless grace. When he comes to our door he stops, he has to stop, I’m standing in the way hair raised and – if truth be told – growling not a little. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” I manage to articulate. He looks at me with his fucking wide unblinking stare and says “Non.” “You must have slept with everybody in this mansion!” I growl but cringe a little inwardly, you know, ‘slept with’? what am I, some fucking nun? Still unblinking he says “Oui.” Oui? *oui*?!! “All of them?!” I cannot believe it. “Mais oui.” And he distracts me, fucking cat satisfied smirk on his soft cruel cat lips, he distracts me from the dressing down I mean to give him and gets me curious “What, you fucked Rogue?” at least that’s come out a bit more me-man-me-grunt-like than the delicate euphemism of a moment before. “Mais oui” mais oui mais oui, can’t he say anything else? Cat got his tongue? Did he swallow his own tongue in feverish fucking sex? “But how?” a yelp. I know, I can’t help it, put a wolf, even a notoriously rabid wolverine, amid humans and he starts to become a dog, yelping when surprised out of my skin is now inevitable. That bastard cat capitalises on it too, but that’s a cat for you. He grins some more and decides to expatiate “Ah, the wonderful innumerable joys of spandex! Skin thin elastic resilient…!” “But you can’t kiss her!” Tragic. Really. This was more of a howl than a yelp. Down, dog, bad dog, put a sock in it! “Mon vieux(1)” he purrs – I hate it when he purrs, catspeak for ‘love me see how loveably cuddly I am?’ And *then* they scratch your eyes out – “Who says you have to kiss to… how did you put it? So chastely. Ah. To sleep with someone.” I can’t let it go, that’s one things dogs are good at, famous for it in fact, we don’t let go that easily of things we have bitten. “Even Warren?” now this is really something I can’t believe. Cats hate rats and that stuckup little toad is a rat of the first magnitude, no on a rat Richter(2) scale he’s 12over12. So, no. No way my sleek finicky cat has stomached that sewer rat. He tilts his head – another thing, by the way, that makes me foam at the mouth – and says “Bien, Warren… Warren is an acquired taste.” How supercilious can you get? Trust a cat to get that and then some more. “Did you miss anyone, got your full collection?” “No. And yes, mon vieux. Now if you don’t mind…” Ah but I do, I do mind, he’s not getting in until he’s answered this one. “Who was it this time? Now, I mean a few minutes ago?” Okay, sometimes he gets my patience is at an end, I have to give him that, he’s not stupid. Narcissistic, traitorous, vain, selfish, self-indulgent, self-centred as a gyroscope, trigger-tempered, contemptuous, nervous, sensual and cruel, yes. Cats are all these things. But not stupid, I hate to admit it, even to myself, but cats are not stupid, especially this redhaired specimen – ginger cats are the worst, untrustworthy fighting mad and permanently in heat – that has imbedded his claws into my flesh so deeply I doubt I’ll ever be free of him… or want to. Does he know what he does to me? Oh yes, he knows he knows and glories in it. Where was I? Ah yes, 4 in the morning and the wanton Cajun – it almost *sings* doesn’t it? – has still not told me whom he elected to take his pleasure with. Right, that’s not perfect grammar, but what the fuck? “Well?” He sighs and suddenly yawns as only cats can yawn opening his read maw wide and stretching those impossibly long limbs shifting the panes of his flat stomach in cock-throbbing ways. “Hank” he grins, when he’s finished. Takes his own sodding time doing it as well, too maddening for words. Then his answer registers. “Hank?” There, I yelped again, satisfied? Dammit, yes, he is. “Hank. Deliiicious teddybear, huuuuge blue thing, soooft silk hair.” “In fact” he adds with an abrupt change of tone – there, there, you see? What did I tell you? One moment sensual cuddle and the next the claws are out. Come to think of it I have cat claws not dog claws – maybe there’s hope for me still – “I find I have blue hairs in places where even *I* didn’t know I had places.” He cutely scrunches his nose. *Cutely* pay attention, he knows very well my poor pecker has been quivering for some time at his wanton – no better sluttish – display. “And?” What can I do, I know I am his straight man, a good one, granted, even allowed some good lines every once in a while, but I know my place. It’s a bitter thing to know, but dogs, even wild ones you call with dangerous intriguing names, know their place. Their place in the pack and their role in the pack. We are pack animals, to our misfortune – no, not really, to our good fortune generally, but when we meet a cat… - I lost my point, you’ll have noticed how I ramble. I ramble because, like the tenacious never-let-go good efficient dog I am, I am still chewing on this incredible thing that has happened to me. Against, and I want to make this as clear as I possibly can, my will. What’s he saying now? Ah, I should have known. “And I want to take a shower, a long deep intimate shower and get rid of all this fucking blue hair dans mon cul(3)!” Haha, he’s spitting now, I’m glad his experiment with teddybears left such annoying relics. He’ll think twice next time! Or will he? “Well?” he demands “Will you help me get rid of the evidence or not?” Can you believe a wolf can fall in love with a cat so deeply, so helplessly, so lustingly hard, he becomes a dog? A domesticated - for fuck’s sake - animal? Can you believe I can’t go to sleep anymore unless I’m curled around that sleek lithe beautiful cruel ruthless perfection? Because I can’t, not quite, anyway, not quite yet, to be more precise. Ah! You wonder at the way I talk. Quite natural of you. You don’t expect the ‘snarling’ Wolverine to be able to use grammar and a coherent syntax. Well, I say use… I do my best, which is adequate, I feel, even if not exceptional. But I was not born in a slum, I was not born – and I wish I was, really I do, else why use the illiterate growling persona? – in the States. I am a Canadian. My memories may have been scrambled, but the language centre is something else, somewhere else in the brain. So, yes, confession time, I can talk as opposed to grunt. I can articulate thoughts, even if only in my mind, as you must have noticed I don’t do that when I talk to my mates and various enemies. Yes, but you are my friends, aren’t you? My *only* true friends, the only ones I could speak like that to. Oooo bad grammar bad syntax… Well, I never said I was a Shakespeare, didn’t I? So back to our confessional labours. I love that cat I said. I mean it, you know? No, not that I love him, though that’s becoming more true every second, but that he’s a cat. Now stay with me, my friends, stay with me a while. He. Is. A. Cat. He is, he is. Ponder the creature: you all know how he looks, juicy descriptions dribble from your lips and let’s all consider them read and written. Cat-like, huh? Yes, of course, but that’s not my point. My point is that he has a cat mind a cat soul. No, no, listen! He prowls alone. Yes he’s with us at the moment, but always separate, only by the way. Almost all he does is alone, give him the slightest excuse to prowl the rooftops on his own and he’s off like a bat from hell. Cat. Cats are not pack animals, cats have no pack ties, cats know of only one tie. *Only* one, my friends. The mother-cub tie. That is their one real relationship in the world. Take a cat, any cat – hey, careful, they not only scratch, but bite with sharp pointed razor teeth that may look deceptively thin and fragile, but pierce your hapless finger through – and the only creature it will listen to is his mother. That’s my black-and-red eyed fate, square on the nail. He listens fitfully if at all to anyone, but let JeanLuc call him and he goes, let JeanLuc ask – order more like but let’s this pass, this is a long standing source of irritation for me – him to do something and he does. Does JeanLuc say thank you or whatever in fuckplanet they say? Nope. But the next time that queued haired bastard calls he will go. A cub to his mother. They haven’t any options really, it’s survival. Then consider the other aspect of it. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘a tigress with one cub’? That’s my Gambit. Once… Oh, that was good, that was one of my best days, that was really really yummy scrunchy bloody satisfying that was. So we were fighting the baddies – what else do we do? Setting aside the unbridled fucking and unending angst, of course. And they were the usual baddies as well – well, who else is there to fight? All the other costumed cretins as my darling vulgarly calls them sometimes, I still have to see what’s he got against poor Daredevil? No, let it go, I don’t really want to know, what if he tells me the poor blind man’s got ejaculatio praecox? Better not to risk an ulcer. – Where was I? Ramble is not my second name, getting-lost-in-incidental-phrases is my second–and-third–name. Ah yes, all the other costumed cretins have got all the other baddies, there’s just a limited number of villains a universe can produce. So okay we punch, we get punched, we zap, we get zapped, you know the drift, usual fistsfeast, when all of a sudden that blasted overgrown cat – now that’s a feline I can freely hate – Sabretooth jumps me from the wings. No big prob, you know, not really. I get ready to swipe him a good one and this mad spitting cat comes flying through the air literally landing on the top of that dumb yobbo exploding cards all the time. Fast and furious he walks down the falling shoulders totally obliterating all that obnoxious yellow hair and a bit of back as well. Sabertooth goes down like a log and battle-mad Gambit keeps throwing everything he can get his hands on – should have said mitts, I know I know – in a deadly shower of blinding explosions that put to flight the bad baddie villains. I see Victor is stirring a bit, and as my raging cat is so out of his mind that he hasn’t noticed – which lets me hope I *have* finally gained some points with him – gently insert a claw up a nostril and the rest inside his open mouth and say, very quietly “Blink an eye and I will rip your face off, it’ll take you a month to grow a new one.” He closes his eyes very very slowly and carefully so I see he understands, but I nearly rip his face off anyway because I’m laughing so hard. - Did I tell you that slick bastard of a cat can always make me laugh like a hyena? I know I know, but a relative nonetheless. – That’s because his cards and all the rest of the objects he has grabbed are not the only thing that barrage the baddies, no siree! He’s spitting at them splurging a shower of insults in his incomprehensible lingo I never pretended to understand. But I get the gist, he’s saying something like ‘you have no balls and even if you had they would be minuscule and by this time hiding inside your nostrils you fuckless wonders’ Er… Or similar and suchlike. Cyke’s mouth is hanging so low I think he’s going to need surgery, bloody stuckup Warren the Wanking Wonder has to flap like a chicken for dear life because the shock has immobilised him in the air. That’s what I meant by a tigress with one cub. - I can tree him, mind you. When he gets me really good and mad at him he runs like a cheetah and climbs to any likely perch, hurling raspberries and exploding leaves at me, thereby looking like a drunken monkey which makes me laugh which makes me lose my fury which makes him jump down into my open arms which makes me want to do an entirely different order of things to him. But that’s by the way. - Which brings me to the debated question of his so-called love for me. Has he decided I’m his cub? I can feel the growl rising in me like vomit. Rrrrrrr. *His* cub? Over my dead body that is, I’m older and stronger than him… Which of you wrote him saying ‘but I’m fustuh’? Truer words were never spoken on this planet, he can run circles around me. BUT… and this is important… but I can grab him. I have still to decide if he’s letting me do it or not. It’s important, don’t you agree with me on this one? It’s important if he’s letting me or not though, to be truly confessional, I don’t know which I would prefer. I mean that he feels something for me that’s important enough to sacrifice a bit of his sodding vanity, or that I’m still quick enough to catch that goddamned cat. What am I reduced to? Weeping all over my shift, as they used to say in the middle ages when they still wore shifts instead of underwear. But shifts feel right for us with all our shifting identities, names and costumes. The last one, if you want to know, makes me feel a right berk, a 50s American noveau riche(4) fat woman – yes Canada has a huge French area – with winglike glasses in a wing plethoraed Cadillac. Another detour! You wouldn’t like me driving you anywhere, I can see, and you would be right. Bad Wolverine, bad dog, down down SMACK! Okay, better now, so back to the point. Is he letting me catch him because he knows he’s my mate? Do cats mate for life? Mate? For? Life?!!! Hello hello have I got the wrong universe? No cat has ever known the meaning of the word ‘mate’ all they know is mewhowl and caterwaul and wriggling asses and biting and quick thrust thrust thrust thrust and out before your so called ‘mate’ claws your nose off. Not that he’s so quick in bed, mind you, analogies can be taken only so far, but you get the idea, I hope. And now back to our story. So he’s in the shower, sweaty slinky delicious flesh wiggling around trying to get his hand in impossible places to get rid of the hairs. “Logaaan!” he sings wails caterwauls meowhowls “Help meeeeee! Help Remyyyyyy!” Bastard! Fucking unprincipled bastard! Fucking bloody shameless bastard slut! He *knows* damn him that I can’t resist that bitch-in-heat sound. That’s what always buggers us dogs, that ready or not we cannot resist the bitch in heat. And he knows. And he uses. *And* abuses. My claws are out and they’re not the only thing that wants to be unsheathed, believe you me, but what can a poor dog do? I go to him and ask, as snottily as I can, “Do you expect me to pull all those blue hairs out of your ass?” Could have spared the breath and the heavy irony, water off a duck’s back, if you can pardon me for mixing my analogies – or is it metaphors? “Ouuuuuuuiiiii!” he sings wails caterwauls in real distress. He’s a cat, see? Cats are nothing if not *clean*, he’s always washing cleaning combing preening himself. Can stand to fuck anything that breathes, and I wouldn’t leave him alone with vegetables after a fuckless night too, but can’t stand not to wash afterwards. He leaps out of bed as if from a contaminated plague spot after a fuck and washes. I hate it. Hate it hate it hate it. But then I’m a dog – well, sort of – and we don’t mind a nice bit of filth, in fact it’s like cologne to us, which is why he’s affecting me so powerfully just now. I wash, of course I do, spandex stinks like there’s no tomorrow when you sweat in it and I sweat plenty during a fight or a training session. So I wash, but I’m not maniacally at it every second. You’d think he’d end up bald he washes that fucking silky impalpable hair so often. Do you know what he has done? Do you? No? He’s installed a beday, a bidey, a bidet whatever the fuck that thing’s called in our bathroom! He had it installed and just pointed at it and said “Wash!” I leave to your wonderful imagination to conjure my reaction at being ordered like a dog. And you know? That bastard always does it when he wants something done. And you want to know something even worse? I have to fight not to obey the *VOICE*, the master’s voice, I’ll be damned in hell before I let the beast give in to that. DAMNED IN HELL! D’YOU HEAR, GUMBO? You can splash and wiggle and wank to your heart content with that brothelish whossname, but I. Am. Not. Going. To. Use. It. So there. Now lick my cock, you indecent cat you. Dream on, Logan, dream on, that’ll be the day! If you want to feel his softwetboymouth you wash. In. That. Thing. Where was I? Ah, yes, being Warrenish in the shower. Well, he ignores the sarcasm and gets the gist. “A lot, are there?” he asks “Tons.” I answer a bit exaggerating. “Should have made him use a condom, but couldn’t resist all that silky fur.” He’s not repentant nor remorseful, just annoyed. “What do we do?” The ‘we’ is nice and typical of him. Sure, pussycat, involve me in your nights on the town, involve me in the aftermath as if I didn’t give a fuck. Well I do. Give a fuck, that is, in more than one sense. “Mmmm” I ponder and apparently of his own accord my finger rubs the slightly enlarged and exuberantly blued pink bud of his arse. “Mmmm” he purrs and pushes against me. I am aghast, does he never tire? Control, Logan, control and steel determination will win the day. “I’m *not* putting my cock in there. It’s purple-blue enough as it is.” I say, severely enough for once, and he laughs that giddy thoughtless laugh that makes my blood boil and my brain drop straight to my cock, yes ugly and purple-blue, but powerful enough to please. I want out of my pants at once at once and push to the hairs into that laughter, biday my ass! “Oh, my poor Wolfie-cur!” croons the well read bastard cat and kneels and undoes my pants in a second. Quick has *some* advantages, you know. And he takes me into the hot slippery bliss that is his generous mouth. And can he blow suck give head, my dear friends! Knows all the tricks, but tonight he has elected to go for the sincere simple pleasures of sex and that’s what I like most. Yes I’m old fashioned – I *am* old after all, I have a right, I’m allowed to be – yes I’m so deeply desperately hopelessly in love that any appearance of affection is better than a courtesan’s skill, yes, but you should try what ‘simple’ means to his rubber mouth, his friendly teeth, his vibrating tongue. You know that when he does ‘simple’ I can sometimes even feel the rasp of his cat’s agile tongue? He’s bringing me to climax rather quickly, I suppose the curse of the blue hairs is still his first priority, but I can hang in there. I can and can hang in there, which is probably the only reason he is still living in my room, given his tactics. But the cat is a clever animal, senses things even if you try to hide them, not a great nose, nothing but nothing beats a dog at nose, but all those sensitive vibrissae – their bristles – those sharp ears, those intent farseeing eyes… It’s hard to hide something from a cat and he knows I want him to be uncomfortable. Suddenly he slithers my cock from his mouth into his waiting palm and squeezes lightly “Are you sure you want me to go on, mon vieux?” he asks disingenuously “We’ll have to pick blue hair out of your oh so manly slit, you know? I got a throatful.” And plunges poor helpless me into that cavern of delight again. Oh, oh, excuse me a moment. Aaaaaaahhhh! Ah. Now then, where were we? Ah yes. The bad hair morning. By the way, can you believe that you can come and laugh at the same time? I didn’t until I fell into the clutches of a beautiful slick panther – a particularly large and vicious cat. I laugh and he works his mouth and I don’t know anymore where the laughter ends and the unbearable pleasure begins, whether I’m coming, as they say, or going. So in the end I do both and of course strangle on my laughter and hiccup my orgasm. My one real deep heartfelt pleasure in this is that I must be so funny that he nearly chokes on my cum and falls flat on his naked ass on the shower floor laughing and laughing and laughing his silly head off. And, you know dear friends, I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else on this planet, but that laughter filling the bathroom and flying out of the window gives me the most fulfilling pure delicious ecstatic orgasm of the heart. Can you believe that a dog can love a cat so much? Maybe you can, it’s odd but not unconceivable. Yes, well, but can you believe that a cat can love a dog just as well? Or at all? I don’t know, I really really don’t know… ENVOY – CATS AND DOGS “Pussycat…” “Gmsftl.” “Lover…” “Nnnn brstflgt…” < sigh > “Gumbo.” “Mmm?” “Let’s get a dog.” < instantly awake > “What dog? Let’s get a cat.” “A nice goofy pup all ears and paws” “A delicious fluffy kitten all teeth and claws” < patience Logan, patience > “Look, a dog is loyal, loving and fun.” “A cat is beautiful, silky and clean.” “A dog will stand by you and do what you say.” “A cat will play with you, sleep in your lap and be *clean* all the time.” “A dog will walk with you and run with you and love you all the time.” “So will a cat, but love you and give you some privacy as well and be CLEAN!” BARK! FFFFTTT! “Dog.” “Cat.” “Cats spray.” “Dogs pee and poo everywhere.” “Dogs can be trained.” “Cats can be enticed.” RRRRRRRRRRR! HHHHHISSSSSSS! WOOF! MREEEOW! BARKBARKBARK! MMMMRRRRREEEAOUWWWWW! GROWLBARKBARKBARKBARK! FFFFFTTTTTT! Snick zap swish SLASH! YEOUWWWWW! Fizzle BANG! SLASHSLASHSLASH Fizzle fizzle fizzle BANGBANGBANG < where oh where does he keep them? > Patter patter patter SLAM “Cut it out you two. We want to sleep” < fucking busybody Scott > “And besides no pets in the mansion.” GROOWWLL Bound snick SLASHSLASH FFFFTTT fizzlefizzlefizzlefizzlefizzle BANGBANGBANGBANG! “And *stay* out!” “Connard(5)!” SLAM “Now, where were we?” < dreamy voice > “A beautiful elegant Russian blue with ice azure eyes, dark silk fur all dangerous cuddly fierce-tempered *clean* loveliness…” “I was thinking more of an Irish wolfhound, all long legs, long russet hairs and glowing red eyes. *Loyal to the death and beyond*.” “Dogs are dirty.” < menacing > “Cats shed” Take long red hair out of mouth. “So do dogs” Spit short black hairs out of mouth. Spitspitspit “Yuck!” < roar > “You know where you are with a dog.” “Boooring. You get to find out each time with a cat.” < fierce >“Dogs are good company.” < icy cold now > “I am *not* sharing this bed with another dog.” RRRRRRRRRRRR HHHHIIISSSSSSS BARKBARKBARK FFFFFTTTTT SnickzapSLASHSLASHSLASHSLASH! FizzlzfizzlefizzlefizzleBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGWHAM! YIPYIPYIP grooooowwwwwlllll… MREEEEEEEOUWWWW laplaplaplap. “eh eh eh eh!” “oh oh oh oh!” < together crescendo > “Ah!ah!ah!Eh!Eh!Eh!Ih!Ih!Ih!AH!AH!AH!AH!AH!” Sniff! “Oh!Oh!Oh… phewwww… SLURP! Gurgle “Ehehehe… Wheeeee… Mm? LAP! SLURP SLURP BITE CHEW SLURPSLURPSLURP! LAP LICK TEETH GULP LAPLAPLAPLAPLAP! HOOOOOOOOWWWWWWLLLLLLLL!!!! MNREEEEEEEOOOOOUUUUWWWWW!!! Pant pant pant Purrrrrrrrrr pant sniff snuffle pant pant purrr-snuggle-rrrr-snuggle-rrrr… ZZZZZZZZZZZ Snort snuggle SNORE TRANSLATIONS 1 my old pal 2 measures earthquakes – apologies to all those who knew already was uncertain whether to put this note in – sorry if I offend, not my intention 3 into my ass 4 new rich – vulgar and tasteless NOTE The ‘envoy’ was a last little bit of poetry tackled at the end of a longish lyric to illustrate a point or spell out the moral. Er… see translation #4 for apologies. THE END |