CRACK!

Ha. Nine lives be damned. All it took was one miss-timed leap, and one heavy ass door. Shit, I was almost done too.

Let me tell you. Reincarnation’s a bitch. One minute I’m strapped in a chair, contemplating the shoddy craftsmanship of its wiring. My victims' families watching me behind one-way glass. The next, a switch flips, some lights flicker, and presto; furry body, four legs, and a tail.

Hell, I used to laugh along with the rest of you.

Watching America’s Most Retarded Animals or some shit like that. Well, you know the videos of the family pet draggin’ its ass around on the carpet? Pretty funny stuff right? Shit. Try going a week, crapping in a sandbox with no toilet paper and see just how much you scoot around in your chair.

But hey, I guess the reincarnation thing ain’t all bad. I’ve got a sleek new body. I get to kill my food.

And best of all I get to take revenge on the ones who executed me.

Ha, you should have seen the look on the first guy’s face. It was Mr. Big Shot. Mr. all-powerful district attorney, rolling up every day in his big, black Benz.

I’ll bet he thought he was untouchable. Probably figured it was a sunny day, why not leave the sunroof open? After all, who would mess with the attorney who convicted me, the Butcher of Brockton.

Ah, you gotta thank God for egos. Made my life a lot easier. I just jumped right up, hopped in, and squatted down on the driver’s seat. My little parting revenge. One sun-warmed puddle of cat piss. Priceless.

The judge and my former attorney were just as easy.

They came to the courthouse every day. Even took better care of their cars. But after a while, they slipped up. Left a window down too much, stepped away from an open door, and viola. Instant seat warmer complete with complimentary air freshener.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Pissing in their cars wasn’t my first idea for revenge. I figured, hell, why not kill ‘em? Might as well imitate the style I used when I was human.

Shock and awe. It works wonders. I earned my nickname by killing twenty-three people. You know how many put up a fight? Two. The rest were too scared, and that’s when I just had my hands. Now? Hell, I’ve got built-in fangs and claws. Piece of cake, right?

Wrong. Before the car pissing, I tried a direct attack on the D.A. He was walking to his car one night and I leapt out in front of him. I bared my teeth and let loose my most fearsome growl, “Mmmrowrrrr!”

He smiled and said "hey kitty kitty." Not my proudest moment. I realized it was time to find a new M.O.

Ok. So I wasn’t exactly killing em. But I settled for what I could get.

My favorite spot, of course, was the driver’s seat.

That way you got the stain, the smell and the added bonus of the wet ass. Back seats and floors were also good. It took ‘em longer to figure out where the smell came from that way.

Quick side-note for any other vengeful pissers out there. Avoid all electronic equipment such as speakers and amplifiers. Whew. One exposed wire and you’re looking like you should be named Don Kitty in need of a catfight to promote.

All right. Officers of the court? Check!

That left me with twelve jurors to attend to. Now here’s where fate helped me out a little. Had I gone on my spree in New York, L.A., or some other big city I would have never been able to track ‘em down.

But Brockton was a one-stoplight town in every sense of the word. And sitting next to that stoplight was the town’s only supermarket. Winn-Dixie. Everybody in Brockton stopped at the Winn-Dixie sooner or later, and one by one I picked the jurors off.

My favorite was the grey-haired, battle-horse of a forewoman. One afternoon, I saw her waddling out to her late 70’s Buick, bulging sacks of groceries in hand.

I move in close. She sets the bags down. Pops the trunk. Leans over for the bags and BAM! Quick as a…well…as me, I’m hidden in the shadows of that car’s cavernous trunk.

In come the bags. Down comes the lid. And presto!

Extra tangy produce from aisle one. And what’s this? A free tootsie roll, from aisle two.

But then came that fateful day. Eleven jurors down.

One to go. News of cat-piss covered car seats has spread, striking fear into the noses of Brockton.

Windows stay up, and doors close quickly.

Enter juror number twelve. A trophy, soccer mom, complete with Italian heels and mini-van. She pulls up to the Winn-Dixie. Opens her door. Steps out. And the door's shut again. Just like that. Too fast for me. No time to make a move.

Ah, but there’re kids in the back. I can beat a sliding door any day.

But they don’t get out. They just sit there watching the mini LCD screen. A movie about a talking mouse, no less. Gimmie a break.

So I sit and wait. I lick my fur for a bit. And let me tell you. There’s not many things that can make a men’s prison shower a preferable method of bathing.

But licking yourself clean definitely makes the list.

Then she’s out. No bags.

Crap.

O.K. Gotta be quick.

Door's open.

I’m running.

She’s in.

I jump.

But the door's closed now.

Shit!

Thump.

That was my head, by the way.

Now I’m mad. Bitch is goin’ down.

She’s driving away now, but I’m tailing behind.

Damn. Now that’s ironic. She’s pulling away from me and there’re no stoplights to slow her down.

By the time she pulls into her driveway, she’s already gained a few blocks on me. But I’m coming up fast.

She’s out.

My paws fly in rhythm over the blacktop.

Her door shuts.

Two blocks.

Damn. I tripped. Fuckin’ two left legs.

She opens the sliding door.

Back on my paws, I started closing the distance again.

The kids pile out.

Five houses away.

The door’s still open. I can see the side bucket seats. Halleluiah!

They’ve walked away and left it open!

Three houses to go and my pissing spree will be complete.

Wait! The door’s closing by itself now?

You gotta be shitting me. Automatic doors?

I wouldn’t let her deny me my vengeance.

Twelve feet away.

I’m just a blur of grey.

Eight feet.

The door had fifteen inches left to close.

Three feet.

I will beat that door.

One foot.

I leap. I will win. I won’t be denied. I looked down and saw upholstery.

I beat it. I bea-

CRACK!

Shit.

My head cleared the door. My body did not. I tied. And this ain’t baseball. Tie does not go to the runner.

So here I am in my new incarnation. Apparently when whatever powers-that-be brings you back, they put you near where you died. Apparently these powers also have a sense of humor. They made me a snail.

A fucking snail. You know. Complete with retractable antennae, shell, and slimy body. It’s taken me days just to move from the driveway to the welcome mat.

But the time for vengeance is upon me. Here she comes.

Italian heels and all.

A little to the left.

Just a couple more steps.

A little bit back.

I’m gonna get her this time!

Here it comes.

As I stare at the descending heal, my last thought is of her face, all scrunched up, while she cleans my slime off her expensive shoe.

I'll show her!

Crunch!