Tuesday, November 13, 2001. This is a slightly revised, streamlined version of the original. The changes are so small you’ll hardly notice. They’re relatively insignificant; so if you already have this file, don’t bother updating.

This is part two. There's going to be a lot of violence in this one, enough to warrant the R. The violence is detailed, sometimes brutal, but know this. If you swoon at the sight of a broken fingernail or are on the lookout for a liberal dose of blood splatter, then you've come to the wrong place. My story won't cater to either extreme. Same layout as the last, except that it's now yellow and white. Colour schemes and all. As you can see, this story is quite incomplete. Only now have I realised just how difficult writing is. Baka! Dialogue generation annoys me to no end. Narration takes too much out of me. Although this story will be finished in time, it in itself marks the end of my let-me-see-if-I-can-do-it literary phase. A real heartfelt thanks to all those kind-hearted people who've given me feedback. By the way, this tale is dedicated to all the Enforcers, innocent bystanders, in general, all those unknowns who have fallen during the course of the show. Yes, they are fictional, but then again, so is this.

Rated R for violence that never seems to come.

 

Elite Corpse

Written by Dawameren I.

No wisecrack this time.

 

Chapter 2: "Last Rites Given, No Holds Barred…"

Strange what the years can do to a person, thought John in amazement. The last time I saw Ulysses face to face, and that was thirty years ago, he was just another joe with an attitude problem.

The object of his intrigued analyses strode like a deity into the posh meeting room, his bearing not at all affected, at least not outwardly, by the fact that he was essentially here at this very meeting under duress.

And now look at him. Holder of the highest position in the largest semi-autonomous armed force in the world for a mere ten, he's got a manner even Pope Highbrow would be proud of. Though I wouldn't tell him that to his mug. Hell, he wryly observed, he has taken it better than I expected.

Good thing I got back here in time from my bath at the hotel, I wouldn't have missed this sight for the world.

He tugged at the constricting elastic band of his cheapo bow-tie. For some obscure reason, clip-ons were out of stock in the stores, a sure sign of the particularly virulent recession that had set in on the city of late. He tugged vigorously; it broke under his grasp. One more indication of frenetic cost-cutting, courtesy of a declining work ethic, which was part and parcel of the general malaise currently affecting workforces worldwide. No matter, the tie was unloved. Quickly, he dropped the forlorn neckpiece into his tuxedo pocket. Freed from the cramping embrace, his reprieved throat rapidly went into remission, albeit painfully, and it also brought him to awareness of a ring of perspiration that had developed at the weal.

Holy Kats! I'm beginning to sweat already! Then, with grim forewarning, Those deos better work, I spent a lot of money on them!

John quickly receded into the teeming background in lockstep with the bustle that moved as one away from the path of the oncoming Commander, and which crowded forward again to phagocytose the vacant space after he had intersticed through, minus the oil prospector, who stayed behind, back to the wall. From this remove he could assume the role he liked best, that of a bemused spectator. After all, he had come here to warn Feral about ominous rumblings elsewhere, and his current posturing as a potential investor––he suited the part well, but for his 'suit'––was simply a convenient excuse to come in close. Better to remain where he was, keeping a watchful eye on his long lost pal, no longer lost, yet lost to him forever… somehow.

His shoulders prickled at the euphemistic conflict. He needed a drink, a strong whiskey, perhaps. It would clear his mind.

That on top of half a bottle of bourbon, two tall glasses of tequila and a goodly portion of the beverage in the punch bowl, whatever it may have been, but it was excellent anyhow. He could handle these potions; indeed, his hectic lifestyle demanded their intake. Anything less potent, such as the limpid fermented milk so popular in this city, wouldn't pass muster. Neither would any of its generic variants. He took his strong, and when it came to holding his drink, he could outdo any given kat nine times out of ten. It was an ability that had secured many a barroom bet in the past, and was still useful when dealing with unscrupulous hosts who saw no compunction in inebriating their moneyed invitees in order to loosen tongues and a lot else. While his colleagues were sozzled and incapacitated thus, John the charmer could effortlessly sing Gilbert and Sullivan backwards.

They'd never get him.

Not the way they'd get Feral, drunk as he was with power.

Even now he was making his way on the urgings of a lemming-like instinct to where Mayor Manx was standing, partially blocked from view by the crowd around him. Oh, pride! Oh, infamous, ghastly pride! The pride that gave Ulysses Feral reason for living a hard, disciplined life. The pride that wouldn't have him dealing with criminal elements, no matter how great the temptation. The same pride that prevented him from siding with truth when his subordinates rebelled, even when he was in the wrong. The pride which made him go to any lengths to ensure the unfettered expansion of his beloved Enforcers. The very pride he was forced to swallow whenever he tried to do exactly that, placing himself meekly at the Mayor's beck and call like a lapdog.

Another euphemistic conflict. One that made an observant John turn away in physical revulsion.

Feral saw no contradiction in his actions. His brain had addled sufficiently in the collected rainwater turned brine of past inanity for any such distinction to be nonexistent.

Manx was showing him off now, the city's docile chief of security, amenable to whatever changes the investors might wish to implement, from earmarking troop strengths in various sectors of the sprawling metropolis right down to micromanaging patrol routes of individual guards. The starched plenipotentiaries nodded in approval. Thar will be no problem, Manx assured them, no problem at awl. Awl you have to do is whistle, neayah-yah. Callay and I run a smooth operashun in Megakat Citay, there's never been a more stayble government, in all tha warld.

Speaking of Briggs, Feral noted she was not present at this tender get-together, and this knowledge gave him considerable relief. She was probably off working on her boss's backbreaking backlog at the top of the building, and if that was the case, she wouldn't turn up anytime soon.

Deputy Mayor Calico Briggs. The only person who didn't bat an eyelid when he ranted, who stood by impassively before his bluff and swagger, who was never intimidated. Who saw him for the fraud he was. Through and through. The only person he was wary of. Oh, the SWAT Kats, with their sneering, wide-screen aerial acrobatics, were infuriating, but were merely an irritant for which he had no answer, and he could live with the feeling of helplessness it invoked.

Briggs? She would pose there, unemotionally, his best invective caroming uselessly off her aura of rank disdain. And when he was thoroughly expended, she would respond with a searing riposte of her own that invariably ripped him to shreds. Take that in conjunction with the successes of certain vigilantes, and he would be left devastated for weeks at a time.

It was good she wasn't here.

Manx was steering the Commander from cluster to cluster, introducing him to each in turn. They lingered on in a group for no longer time than it took for formal howdys, the dalliance cut short at the Mayor's insistence––he could be very energetic on occasion––and Feral's own unwillingness to cooperate in what he felt was merely a beholden duty. So on they went, from industrialists to speculators to arms dealers to heads of state, not necessarily in that order, it was sometimes back and forth and back again, but the categories were clearly demarcated. For as the saying goes, birds of a feather…

They spent little time with Mr. Young and his associates. The pudgy one seemed embarrassed in their presence, as if remembering the forgettable escapades at the still-defunct Megakat tower. They had to pay their respects, however, seeing as how the tycoon meant so much to the city's economy. Feral made no protest when Manx finally detached the two of them from the Orientals and made their way towards the congressmen and diplomats.

True to their calling, the politicians paused their socialising to meet their brethren halfway, absorbing Manx and his lackey into the buzzing group seamlessly. The moment they gained entry, the others picked up where they had left off. Conversation continued, mostly between the Mayor and his contemporaries, men on the level. The paladin was left to his own devices, and could afford himself a full appraisal of the little assemblage. It conformed to a chariot-wheel arrangement, the members on the rim in a rough circle, facing inwards. His liege lord and he terminated one spoke of this wheel. At the obverse stood the distinguished Congressman Flaeskwisher, famed political commentator, power-broker par excellence, president-emeritus of Harfurred, and quite obviously the dominant personality here. The lesser ones about him held the sorrel kat in awe, and rightly so, for he was a striding giant on the world's stage. His peers deferred judgement on everything until his opinion as to the matter was ascertained, afraid of displeasing their god-on-high. They seemed to form appendages to his body, extending from right of him, from left of him, to create a curving crab's claw reaching around, gripping Manx and Feral betwixt the tips of the pincer. The arrival of the two changed the configuration of the group: previously it had been a personal fiefdom comprised of the congressman as nucleus surrounded by the protoplasm of his vassals. Now it became a bipolar construct, host and guest at either end, the others acting as medium and amplifier for the flux tube between the two. The stream of conversation quickly progressed from the usual niceties through to serious interaction. Hither and thither it flowed and ebbed by turns. All that the others were willing to contribute were murmurs of assent or silence, their responses limited to this, and merely ripples in the wake of the bandied commodities of the exchange.

"So, Mayor Manx," continued Anthony Flaeskwisher, "they tell me this recession has hit Megakat City hard, so hard in fact, that your office is planning rollbacks on some of its more, shall we say, ambitious projects. Word is on the streets that the city government is unable to cope with the pressures of rising unemployment. Tell me, Mayor, is this true? Or is this some despicable falsehood spread, as is commonly alleged, by the opposition?" He drew deeply on a cigarette, an act singularly unfashionable for the times, yet permitted in his case owing to his seniority and eminence.

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Flaeskwishar," replied a suave Manx, as the statesman exhaled. "That is, to your first question, auph course. The aupposition can bay awl they want, but the fact remains, my department has performed admirably throughout this crisis. Any misapprehensions as to our effectiveness are without foundation, and should be treated as such. For one thing, we are all gathered precislay because of the up and coming power plants, which makes nonsense of such claims. We aim to provide new jawbs to everybody through this."

Flaeskwisher smiled. Perhaps the Mayor wasn't such a lunkhead as people made him out to be; he intended to test him. If nothing else, it might prove mightily entertaining––the celebrated exemplar had a touch of mischief about himself which he occasionally indulged. To this end, he prodded, "Even so, what of the conspicuous and highly visible programs of expansion being currently undertaken by the Enforcers? Don't tell me these are being financed by diverting resources from needier causes."

Feral started at the challenge, but was beaten to the draw by Manx, who answered, "If it's social injustice you're worried about then I can allay your fears. These so-called expansions are nothing out of the aurdinary. They only appear to be so due to the fact that we've had to replace vast amounts of equipment lost in the recent attack by Dark Kat's minions. At the present rate the Enforcers will fully recavar within as much as two months. Granted, we have decided on expanding certain aspects of the service, but that's because we thoroughly reevaluated our threat perceptions and as a result, we shall cut back in other areas to counterbalance."

The sorrel cat blinked.

He said, "That is understandable. The city must be strapped for cash, though. Why don't you ease up on the plant construction, and free up funds for more pressing needs?"

"Mr. Flaeskwishar, I'll be the first to admit that we are going through rough tymes. But keep in mind that we're not that bad as regards our finances. As for slowing down construction, it would make little sense, for the jawbs the plant will provide can alleviate the situaytion immediatlay. In the long term too, it'll mean a steaday source of revenues and employment. So that's out of the question."

"How about borrowing from the World Bank? We know you can accelerate production, and repay it later when your coffers are full, as they will be, eventually."

"There's no need, really. We're coming along at a fine pace as it is. Besides, a lot of cities and nations are in far worse condishion. They, not us, need the moneigh."

Flaeskwisher abandoned this line of attack. Very well, if Manx could not be tripped up on expenditure then it was time to assail the technology behind the project, to exploit the Mayor's assumedly poor grounding in the sciences. He ruddered the cluster over to the window. His colleagues stood respectfully at an arm's length from the stolid kat as he gazed sightlessly down at the tessellated earthen-and-grey cityscape. He turned.

"Pecuniary matters aside, what of the advanced physics upon which the plant is based?" He fixed his even, emaciated gaze at Manx's bespectacled own, the latter's face framed by a halo of sideburns.

"You speak of the zerow-point energy ¹ tappar grid?"

So he knew the name! Interesting. "Of course."

"What auph it?"

"Well, it's simply the most revolutionary power source since fire. According to scientists, each 'reactor' has quadrillions of times more energy than all of the nuclear weapons stockpiled on this planet both past and present. And your plant will have seven of these installed. Aren't you in the least bothered that something might… happen?"

"I meself have spoken with the Head of Pumadyne and have read their journals extensivelay. There are certain pitfalls, no doubt, but the benefits far outweigh the risks. As technological capital of the warld, Megakat Citay cannot afford to pass up on this epochal advance. Numerous safeguards have been built into the system, and, unlike conventional nuclear reactars, there is no equivalent waste management prablem. Security is not an issue heah. We have the Enforcers, a very competent body of protectars, isn't that right, Ferahl?"

"Yes Mayor," came the gruff reply, "we can handle anything."

Flaeskwisher looked doubtful. Manx piped up, "Oh, yes. We have the SWAT Kats as well!"

"Your really should consider putting them on the city's payroll."

Feral fumed, but what could he do?

The smoking kat persevered, "As I was saying, what if something happens? An explosion would devastate the city, it's so close to the plant."

"As well as destroy everything else," posited the Mayor cheerfully. "Mr. Flaeskwishar, the blast would be so powerful it would easily consume all the warlds in this solar system, and set off the sun like a powder keg. That way, there's no difference where we keep the facilitay. Better here than anywhere else."

"Good heavens! And despite the hazards, you're still willing to go ahead?"

"Absolutlay! For three excellent reasons. The first is, the super villains, most notably Dark Kat, may want to see this this city in ruins. However, They certainly wouldn't want the world atomized doing it. My guess is, they'll leave it alone. The second reason is the boost to sciyance. Dr. Cougar has been on my back for the past year, demanding I finish the project. You see, the vast energies we can obtain are necessary for the detection of super-strings, which could lead to a 'Theory of Everything', fusing Relativity and quantum mechanics, or so he says. He wants this resolved within his lifetyme. Come to think of it, so do I.

"Lastlay," stated the fat cherub, "one cannot begin to imagine the benefits to civilisation. When it's up and running, the Manxpolis Array can satisfy all of the world's power needs––and then some! Think about it. No further dependence on fossil fuels! A halt on half the emission indices! And… and…" He was quite out of breath.

"You are determined!"

"Yes, I am."

The congressman was silent awhile. Then he broke into a broad grin and applauded Manx, "Take it from me, Mayor Manx, the city is in good hands––yours. Pay no attention to those who say you're some imbecile holding office on the strength of his connections, as I won't, from now on out!" He extinguished the stubby remains of the cigarette in an ashtray. "Here, let me shake your hand."

And he did so, too.

The Commander, who had been watching dumbfounded all along, was in shock for the second time that day. He thought he knew the Mayor. He thought he did. Manx? HIM? What the heck was going on? Through a haze of incomprehension he recalled the stupefyingly incompetent Manx of yesteryear, the red tape, the sloth, the sheer folly of his reign. And yet… here he was holding his own against the grand old man of the administration, a kat who was finally impressed enough to congratulate Manx on his governing capabilities. We may forgive Feral for believing the world had gone topsy-turvy. If a flock of pigs had deigned to institute a flyby past the window at that moment he couldn't have been more surprised, reeling as he was from the shock of the afternoon's revelations just hours ago.

He needed a drink.

*****

They were walking down the steps of City Hall en masse, flanked by a line of policemen. The meeting had gone down nicely with the visitors. Manx was the shining star of the event, and he had pulled it off on his own, without Callie's help. Somehow. That little detail made Feral's brow pucker. In the past, the Mayor had always used his deputy as a crutch, being unable to manage even a small thing as a Montessorian speech. Very strange indeed. But he had no time to think about it. Right now his thoughts were turning towards other things, prompted by his bumping into John on the way out of the building, about things far less frivolous. Thus he was looking the other way when Manx was heading towards his limousine and initially took no notice of a T-shirted youth squabbling with a guard in plain sight. All of a sudden he knocked the enforcer to the floor. Everybody stopped to see what was going on. By then the infuriated kat had unholstered a bulky weapon from a duffel bag. Before anybody could stop him, he had powered it up and hefted the heavy gun with a laboured grunt. A swift-acting enforcer darted forward and slammed into the assassin, who had been preparing to fire upon the Mayor and his entourage. The blow ruined his aim at the moment of discharge. The blob of incandescent plasma speeded onto the sidewalk, too fast for those nearby to react. The impact announced itself in a blinding armageddon of heat and light.

Minutes later, scurrying paramedics and radio-toting agents were attending to the wounded. There were no immediate fatalities. The entire emergency apparatus of the town was brought to bear on the scene, but with all the mayhem could do little to drive away the nauseating odor of seared flesh and hair.

*****

Great day in the morning! One mishap after another––was it a jinx of some sort? Was MKC hexed? At any rate, Feral had had enough, and he wanted answers. Now.

Not that he seemed to be getting any. Callie's prodigious mass of hair proved to be a most obdurate interviewee.

He let a ten-second grace period elapse. He waited another ten, then resumed his interrogation.

 “You still haven’t quite answered my question, Miz Briggs.”

Callie took her sweet time. She seemed adrift, dissipated. With slit eyes she slowly and methodically conducted a cleansing of her glasses, relying more on touch than on her exceedingly myopic vision. The cashmere sleeve gently swabbed the lenses. 

She cast her gaze to the floor, looked up again.

"I don't think you want to know."

"Don't I? The Mayor got it right across his shins. There isn't a shred of skin left on them."

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm off to see him at the hospital."

"And yet you issue a statement saying he'll be back in the saddle by day after. Kats alive, Briggs! He was so badly burned he might die! Do I have to spell it out for you? D-I-E!"

Callie, suddenly wide eyed and fearful, put a finger to her lips. "Not so loud! Calm down, I can explain everything!"

He held himself. Let her have her say, he thought. He had little fight left in him.

The Deputy Mayor draped her sweater over her shoulders and spoke in a hushed voice, "Commander Feral, can I trust you with a secret?"

Feral groaned inwardly. Not another conspiracy! However, she was his boss, so he agreed. "Which is?"

"The Mayor, who was at your side, who is now on his way to hospital…"

"A kat who might bleed to death."

She avoided eye contact. The confession emerged, drenched in shame, "No, the Mayor hasn't been injured."

"'Hasn't been injured'?! Listen, Miz Briggs, if you're playing the––"

"The kat who you think is Mayor Manx isn't Mayor Manx at all!" she blurted, the green of her irises swallowed up in the white sclera.

Successive shocks to his system had left the Commander rather enfeebled. Today was a bad day. Even more so, it was horrendous! Had he gotten out the wrong side of bed? Choking back molten bile, he girded himself for more. "No?"

"No."

"Then who…?"

"He's a struggling actor from Tuna Beach County, if you must know. Last month he ended up here in search of employment, and found one––as a golf caddy at the place the Mayor visits often."

He realised. "So… Manx saw him and got ideas."

"It was a good idea, you have to admit. I was astonished he could think it up. It all seemed so perfect: the man was a splitting image of Manx; he had studied business for three years; he was hard-working and intelligent and full of ideas."

"You agreed to this," he said, a hint of steel in his voice.

"It wasn't supposed to harm anyone," she returned quickly. "I was snowed under with work. With him as a stand-in, I could do a lot of things, things I wouldn't have had the time for if I had to accompany the Mayor everywhere. A bit of training and foam padding was all it took."

Feral coldly accused, "You deceived everybody."

"I had no choice! People were getting furious about how Manx was at the helm of affairs. The press kept harping on his laziness, saying his privileged kind had no place in this city's polity, and that the city was doomed to wallow in this recession indefinitely. The last thing we need is an unpopular government, Feral. The city can't withstand administrative collapse. When the voters elected a civil servant they expected him to do precisely that––serve. And poor Sam Wade delivered, so we kept him."

"'Poor' Sam Wade, that's his name, eh? I bet he satisfied."

"Of course!" She was defiant. "It pays to keep the Fourth Estate happy. From what I hear, those at the meeting took kindly to his erudition and understanding. You must've seen this yourself."

Feral had to concede the point.

"Anyway, now that he's out of the reckoning, it's back to the old grind again. Sorry, but I must leave now and see Sam. In a way, it's my fault he's in there. Don't tell this to anybody, understand?"

"I won't, Deputy Mayor." He made something vile of the honourific.

She started to leave, then stopped, remembering. "Oh, by the way, who was the assailant?"

"A 26-year-old family man, mentally imbalanced. Recently laid off his job at the steel works. Don't worry about him."

Callie's face knotted in distress. "No, take care of him," she ordered. "Treat him kindly. He's just an angry man looking for an enemy to strike at. Sam just happened to be the biggest target he could find. It could easily have been me… or you, for that matter."

With that she walked to her sedan.

"Wait, Miz Briggs!" he called after her. "If that wasn't really Manx then where is he?"

"At Megakat Springs, where else?"

He stood watching her car coast out of sight behind a convoy of ambulances. The wailing sirens of the departing EMS teams could be heard long after the squads themselves had moved out of view, then they too gradually faded into the background. He headed back to City Hall. Big raindrops began plopping around him. They rapidly turned into a deluge, hastening his movement. The cleansing rain began washing away the dirt of the city.

The focus of our story now leaves this setting and turns to events some thirty years ago.

 

It is the thirty-fifth day of the Blackglove Campaign, a campaign that was to have ended, according to the original plan, after exactly twenty-two from the day it began. But because of certain exigencies and misconceptions, it soon is becoming apparent that it is going to last far longer than that for which the inventors of this grand scheme of things have bargained. They never could have imagined it would go so badly, and thus made no attempt to incorporate contingency measures of any sort whatsoever. Recriminations fly fast and furious back in the metropolis, the proverbial tip of the continental iceberg, while everywhere else on the immense rural hinterland panic reigns supreme. The unprotected peoples living in the landlocked valleys and plains, and those living along the equally defenceless coastline girdling the stretch of the massive landmass, both face terrible danger––and have not the means to fight it. There is nowhere to run to, no place to hide away with one's loved ones. No retreat from that airborne scourge from distant, alien lands. All because the elected representatives of the realm bungled up big time.

The thirty-fifth day, and the combined forces of the Enforcers and the Federation are completely out of their depth. For they face an enemy, which, for all its fearsomeness, is basically an army of irregulars. An army that prefers stealth and cunning over head-on tactics and pitched battle. Not even a proper army. Out in the open, they can be swiftly crushed, and they know that. Yet, this seeming vulnerability which forces them into the way of the guerilla lends itself exceedingly well to their successful technique, a fact that surprises even them.

 

(Unfinished)

 

Footnotes.

1. Zero-point/Null-point energy. The intra-nuclear force. The means of harnessing it still eludes us, but science fiction has a charming predilection, or (as some would say) a gruesome propensity for becoming science reality.

 

The Chapter title, "Last Rites Given, No Holds Barred…" is taken from the lyrics to a song by Jethro Tull, entitled Wounded, Old and Treacherous, from the album Roots to Branches. I'm a fan.

That's all I could write. I work real slow. Haven't watercoloured in seven years. My thanks go out to: Mikazo, for the help and pointers and for being such a sport; Sage, for her infectious enthusiasm and encouragement; Michael, for that long letter that made me so happy; and finally, Kristen, last of the old guard, for keeping the torch burning all these years.

[…]

Egon Spengler [mockingly incredulous]: That's it? Four people? Four people are taking my class?

Kylie Griffin [apologetically]: Most students just aren't… enlightened enough to appreciate paranormal research.

Egon Spengler [good naturedly]: That's more than I had last semester.

You said it. Note that this snippet is not verbatim, as it's been almost year since I saw episode one. I have something going with this story, and fully intend to finish it. It may take many, many months. Y'see, I'm off to other places, other things. E-mails may take a week to be responded to. Sorry! This version is very rough, so the final cut may differ radically in many ways. It's been an experience. Dawa. Monday, July 1, 2001. It's 12:04 AM, according to the taskbar clock. Not so by the wall clock, which asserts Sunday still has around ten minutes to go.