Shrewd collector of cats with a mean chicken dance.
It was mid morning, the sun already baking everything it touches before I woke up. I was used to waking up this late. Sure, I’ve been known go over the edge on my personal stash of Johnny Squawker swill, but nothing like those boozehounds bopping off bottles of the corn all night at my joint. It was the type of place where a fellow could pipe some decent music while enjoying some cheap swill, and maybe even hock some particularly interesting piece of arcana that the grifters managed to get their flippers on. I made a fine bit of jack on chiseling those goons into top shelf prices for my bargain hooch.
But this was no ordinary day. Seems someone has it out for me, wants to stick me with a rap. No other explanation for waking up in broad daylight covered in another man’s blood. I needed to think fast, but all I could hear was the stone pounding in my noggin. I should be dusting off right about now before someone shows up to put the finger on me for giving some guy the big chill or sends their hatchet men to finish off the job but all that I could seem to pay attention to was some cat nibbling at the end of my of my bloody overcoat.
“Knock off you mackerel, before I put a heel in yer kisser” I barked.
“Oh you can talk” replied the cat.
I must’ve been some kinda jobber last night if I was jingle-brained enough to think this cat was talking to me.
“I will gladly let you pet me if you continue to let me clean your coat”