It was a blazing hot day as the sun beat down on the salvage yard, where a side area had been thrown together in an obstacle course of course, winding through the stacks of scrap and old cars. Chance Furlong and Jake Clawson, wearing sleeveless tank tops - olive drab for Chance and black for Jake - and baggy military style fatigue pants, were having one of their usual training exercises to keep themselves in tip top shape… and as usual, much to Jake’s annoyance, Chance was turning it into a competition.
As he swung from a horizontally mounted ladder-like thing like monkey bars on a playground (and in fact, that was precisely where it’d originally come from, as far as he could tell), grunting, his fur streaked with sweat, huffing and puffing, he managed to yell over his shoulder, “Just like the Enforcer days, eh, buddy?” Jake refrained from mentioning that the obstacle courses at the Enforcer Academy were generally a little less… thrown together as Chance grinned… not to mention more focused on teamwork than competition… and hastily added, “Prepare to get your tail whipped!”
Jake could only sigh. Everything was a competition with Chance Furlong. Worse, it was infectious. Managing a grin, he assured Chance as he gained on him, “I don’t think so, pal! If any kat’s gonna ace our little obstacle course, he’s gonna be me!”
And who better?
After all, he’d had the most say in how it was laid out and set up. All told, it’d taken them the better part of the weekend knocking the entire thing together. This got them some odd looks from Burke and Murray, but otherwise they were left alone. Good. He didn’t want those two scrap heap haulers to be spectators to the training regimen he and Chance underwent.
Reaching the end of the monkey bars, Chance stuck his legs out straight and dropped down, landing in a crouch, then broke off in a run, Jake right behind him. Ahead lay several tires laid out at irregular intervals, which Chance zig-zagged through, again with Jake right behind him. In a sudden burst of speed which surprised him, Jake suddenly “leap-frogged” him, jumping up, grabbing his shoulders and swinging his legs over the bigger kat. Chance briefly had the sensation of the thinner mechanic’s butt sliding over his head, and then Jake was suddenly ahead of him, on all fours, looking almost feral as he glanced back over his shoulder, and then shot forwards. Scowling, not like being shown up, Chance put on speed and hurried after him, the duo soon stepping into and out of the final tire and reaching the next to last hurdle on the course.
Sprinting towards a pile of stacked car grills which formed a kind of ramp up to a towering pile of junk, Jake scrambled over the grills and onto the larger pile, Chance behind him, though the smaller, thinner mechanic was much more agile and was definitely going to win, just as he’d said, much to Chance’s annoyance.
Dangling from a bent and rusted basketball goal perched atop the junk pile were two old ropes. Jake grabbed one and swung over the final obstacle, a hole he and Chance had dug and filled with water to create a deep, brackish-looking pond or pool of sorts, the oil-slicked surface glistening in the late afternoon sun. Chance had seemed to dislike this particular obstacle and suggested against adding it… but wouldn’t say why. With no reason not to add it, Jake had persuaded him and now it was the final hurdle on the obstacle course. Even as Chance reached the top and grabbed his own rope, Jake swung gracefully over the pond, booted feet hit solid ground on the opposite side, darting forward.
The finish line was only a few yards away.
Chance, meanwhile, was experiencing a problem. Namely, the rope he swung from snapped under his weight. He gave a short cry of surprise. Stupid old frayed rope! Then he fell like a rock and splashed down into the deep, dark pool, losing his hat. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, at the Academy, water hazards like this one had saved many an Enforcer cadet from hurting themselves. Chance, however, sank out of sight, burbling. A moment later, sans his baseball cap, he broke the surface, flailing desperately. Or with what seemed like desperation, a suspicious Jake noted.
“Jake!” Chance yelled, spitting the oil-slicked water out of his mouth, kicking wildly, trying to stay float. “Give me… a… hand!” he managed to gasp out.
Deciding Chance was playing him for a fool, and having experienced a similar gag with some of his fellow cadets at the Academy, Jake kept running. “Nice try, buddy,” he said. “But that old trick’s not gonna slow me down.” And yet, even as he reached the finish line, crying, “Looks like the best kat’s gonna win!” he slid to a halt, boots crunching on the dirt and gravel.
“Jake!” Something about Chance’s screams for help were a little too convincing. It was all he could do to keep his head above the surface… and he was sinking fast.
“Crud!” he cried, really hoping he was being tricked after all and running back the way he came. “I don’t think he’s fooling around!” He ran over. “Chance, hold on!” He dove into the water just as Chance’s hand, weakly twitching fingers, sank out of sight.
Both kats disappeared under the dark surface. A moment later, Jake resurfaced, dragging a coughing, spluttering, barely conscious Chance to dry ground. He grunted. His friend was big and heavy, but fortunately, Jake Clawson was stronger than he looked. Something he prided himself on. And something that he enjoyed surprising his enemies with in battle as the SWAT Kat Razor. Dumping Chance on his back, Jake got atop him and began doing chest compressions until Chance threw up a stomach full of water. Jake got off of him and he sat up, looking relieved… and a little sheepish. Ashamed, even.
Deciding this meant he had been tricked, Jake growled, “What’s the big idea? Pretending to drown just so I’ll lose?” He sighed. “Couldn’t you swim out there?”
Chance stood. He coughed again and seemed to want to dismiss the entire thing. “I, uh… sure I could.” He didn’t sound too convincing. “I just, uh, got a… cramp.” Another cough.
Jake was suspicious, narrowing his eyes. “A cramp, huh?” When Chance didn’t reply, Jake leaned in towards him. “You’re okay now, though… right, buddy?” he asked after a moment. When Chance’s only response was to breathe hard, realization came over Jake and he frowned. “You can’t swim, can you?”
Chance didn’t deny it, though he looked down at his boots evasively. He started walking away. Where too, Jake wasn’t sure, and it seemed like Chance wasn’t, either. “Don’t make a big deal about it,” he finally said, a hard edge to his voice which indicated he considered the discussion over.
Jake was floored. How had his friend made it through basic training without swimming? Then it occurred to him that swimming was only for Enforcer pilots’ training, in the event of water landing. He and Chance had originally trained as commandos before unusual circumstances saw them reassigned to the air division, where they’d been given a crash course, no pun intended, on being pilots in the Enforcers… and none of that included the part where Chance would’ve had to swim. Which was a good thing in hindsight. Regardless of the circumstances under which he’d found himself accepted into the air division, he would’ve washed out the minute it became obvious he couldn’t swim.
Jake wanted to be angry. He and Chance had flown together as Enforcers for over a year… and as the SWAT Kats for two years. And the entire time, he couldn’t swim, putting both himself and his best friend and weapons officer at risk. No wonder he’d never wanted to eject from the Turbokat when they were over water. His anger fading, his voice gentle, Jake walked after his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever tell me…?”
“You never asked,” was Chance’s only response. He jerked away and continued walking.
Jake hurried after him and grabbed his shoulder again. And again Chance jerked his arm away and continued walking. Stubborn, thought Jake as he walked beside and slightly behind him. Brightening as he got an idea, he suggested, “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ll teach you how to swim.”
He thought it was a great idea.
Chance disagreed. “Forget it,” he said, giving a dismissive gesture with one hand and then jerking a thumb at himself. “Fish swim. I fly.”
Yep, thought Jake as Chance continued on. Definitely stubborn. He shrugged helplessly as he wondered how in the world he was going to have to break it to Chance that unless he could learn to swim, their SWAT Kat days were effectively over…
~*~
Later that night, Josh, a homeless kat - “alleykat” being the not terribly flattering nickname for such people - slept fitfully in an alley near a pet store. Although Megakat City was a prosperous city, it had its homeless problems. Guys like Josh, for example. A business he’d tried had failed miserably and now here he was, living on the street. His “friends” in the hobo community nicknamed him “Pigbin Josh.” Why, he had no idea, but it was a nickname that had stuck.
He was startled out of his light sleep by some nasty bubbling noises from nearby. Sitting up, he gasped as he watched a nearby manhole cover raise up and a veritable slew of sludge came flowing out of it… and the drainage grates and pipes and other manholes in every direction Josh looked. The stuff was a dull orange color streaked with dark purple. So it was no ordinary sewage. Standing, he backed up against the alley wall, muttering, then screaming as more of the stuff came fountaining out of the sewer, blowing the entire manhole cover into the air.
Deciding it was time to get the heck out of there, the thin alleykat turned and bolted, hopped a chain link fence at the end of the alley, and dashed off into the night, even as the rising gunk swiftly became first ankle deep and then knee deep the more and more of it poured up from underground.
Had he stuck around, Josh would’ve seen the individual behind what was going on.
Dr. Viper slid through the rising tide of mutagen-tainted muck with ease using his powerful tail. His destination was Pet World, the pet store that Josh had been sleeping near. The place had seen better days. Signs like “Sale!” were plastered over the windows. As the gunk forced open the front door, Viper entered the store and surveyed the interior. The employees had apparently already left, escaping out the back door, because the evil biochemist was alone in the store except for the various animals.. A banner reading “Red Tag Sale!” was hung over the area with the cash register, and there were dog houses and kitty condos and such, but Viper only had glowing yellow eyes for the fish bowls, aquariums and terrariums near the entrance.
He approached these. Goldfish swam in the bowls. More exotic fish filled the bigger aquariums. Frogs, turtles and other small creatures lived in the terrariums. They stared uncomprehending up at Viper.
“Sssoon, my little creatures, you will roam free in my new ssswamp city!” he declared, holding up the stoppered Erlenmeyer flask he carried. Katalyst X-63.
The contents were pink with barely visible orange bubbles. The orange, purple-streaked sludge currently inundating the city was a mixture of Katalyst M-63-K and Katalyst 500, mixed together in a special concoction of Viper’s own design. But they only mutated plantlife. The pink Katalyst X-63, however, worked on animals, which was proven the moment a chuckling Dr. Viper removed the stopper and upended the flask over the open top of the nearest tank, dunking the contents on first one frog, then another.
The effect was immediate, especially on the second frog. Its skin bubbled and warts began growing all over it like pustules or tumors, and it swiftly swelled in size, drooling as it roared and snarled. The first frog followed suit, and Viper was forced to jump back to avoid the flying glass as the mutating amphibians broke free. Satisfied, he turned and began pouring the katalyst into the other tanks and bowls.
This time, he would not fail. This time, his Megaswamp City would be a reality! Though the more he thought about it, maybe the name needed a little work. It reminded him a little too much of his dismal failure with the Megakat Tower. Oh well. He’d think of a better name later, he thought as he poured Katalyst X-63 over more of the pets who would soon serve as his mutant army.
Meanwhile, Pigbin Josh splashed through the swiftly rising tide of slime as he ran along, his one and only thought to find help and warn someone, anyone, until he rounded a corner and found his way blocked by a huge… something. It was dark green and lumpy… and an even lumpier tentacle began reaching down to curl around him.
His tail frizzing up, Josh let loose a scream that echoed across nighttime Megakat City.
~*~
Mayor Manx stiffened and stood up straight, the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, some foamy toothpaste dribbling down one side. He stood at the sink in the master bath, dumbly looking at his own reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, waiting and listening. Did he hear a scream? He could’ve sworn he’d heard someone scream. He shrugged and resumed brushing his teeth. There was always crime in Megakat City. Probably some poor dope a few blocks over. But in his neighborhood with its low crime rate? Not a chance.
You’re getting senile, Henry, he told himself, rinsing and spitting into the sink basin which cost more than most other people’s bathrooms. He was dressed in a comfy blue bathrobe with a purple ascot which matched the (of course) monogrammed pajamas he was wearing underneath. Slippers adorned his feet. And, of course, his ever present toupee adorned his head.
“Hum de dum de doy…” Humming to himself, he put the toothbrush into its glass by the sink and then he took off his toupee, plunking it into what appeared to be a marble bust of some revered ancestor but was just a wig holder, what some called a mannequin head. Not that Manx treated actual statues of his family any better, given that an actual bust of some Manx who was supposedly an ancient warlord currently held the top hat he’d worn to some fancy to-do downtown celebrating the opening the Manx Wing at the museum, and a statue of his medieval ancestor King Manximus was draped with the overcoat and silk scarf he’d worn to the same party.
After briefly considering using the litterbox, he decided against it, and, still humming some tune - which he’d made up on the spot and sounded like it - walked over to the shower that by itself cost more than most people’s homes and turned on the faucet for the cold water.
“Hum de dum de doy… dee di dee do…!”
As he reached for the one for the hot water, he froze. Something was wrong. There was an ominous gurgle from the other side of the tiled wall, which suddenly bulged outward, cracking the tiles, and then a bizarre, orangey gunk streaked with purple exploded from the showerhead and began filling the walk-in shower, which rapidly overflowed onto the floor, soaking the rug he’d laid there.
“De dum di dee d–Huh?”
Bad pipes was all he could think of. Really bad ones, he thought, making a face at the color of the stuff. The orange was dull, almost lifeless, and the purple was dark despite how it stood out against the bulk of the stuff. It made sense, he thought as he backed up a bit. The mansion was pretty old. He ought to know. He’d spent most of his life in it, even after being elected back in 1970, eschewing the traditional mayoral mansion which was closer to City Hall. Built by one of his grandfathers back in he knew not when and currently paid for not only by the salary he drew as mayor but by kickbacks he took from Fat Kat Construction, his family’s construction company, which he still owned, and which had, over the years, quite literally helped build Megakat City. Including the mansion where he currently stood in the bathroom, indecisively watching a horrible slimy gunk pouring out of his shower.
No, this was something else. Something bad. Something way worse. As he backed away from the shower, giving a cry of “Godfrey!” as he often did, more and more of the… whatever it was erupting from the showerhead, he saw it was spurting from the faucet in the sink too. “What in–?!”
Suddenly, a quake rocked the entire building, and, glancing out the big window - bathrooms in such ritzy mansions often didn’t require privacy, and certainly not on the fourth floor - his eyes bugged out as he watched first water and then more of the purply orange whats-it spewing from fire hydrants, manholes and drains along the street of the ritzy suburb of Megakat City where the Manx family’s mansion was located.
Time to call for help. There was a phone mounted on the wall. He’d had it installed a few years ago after someone told important people had telephones in every room in their house, and Manx had taken this to heart; there was indeed a phone in every room in the mansion. Including three in the study. Out of reflex more than anything, he grabbed his toupee off the bust where it sat on a small vanity shelf between the sink and the shower, as if whoever he spoke to could see him, and pressed the number for the building’s in-house extension. He lived practically alone and had only one servant, his young chauffeur whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember, and who in addition to driving his limousine fulfilled the duties of a succession of butlers who’d all quit. He hadn’t known any of their names, either. Not even his parents’ butler, he realized somewhere amidst his panic.
And all he knew or cared about regarding his chauffeur was that he wasn’t answering the phone.
Manx uttered various undignified sounds as he hurriedly gave up on calling for help from within the house itself and dialed 911. He got an answer right away. A 911 call from the Mayor’s mansion typically took top priority, even during city-wide catastrophes like the one Manx had no idea was happening just yet.
“Yes, sir, please explain the nature of your emergency,” said the friendly but somewhat stilted voice on the line.
Sensing movement behind him, Manx turned, still holding the phone and making unintelligible noises of fear. “Oh my God! Wha–?! Wooo-hoo! Whoa-ha-hoooaaa!” he whimpered as he saw something big, green and lumpy bulge forth from the showerhead, huge, fat dark green tentacles that coiled over themselves. One reached for him. “This is Mayor Manx!” he screamed into the phone… which he then dropped, wailing, “Heeeeeeeeeeelp!” His tail poofed up in fear. And although the operator could hear him, in doing so, he couldn’t hear what the operator said, although a voice continued issuing forth from the receiver.
The tentacle bent towards him and he prayed help got there in time. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what those ugly octopus-like appendages wanted with him…
Oddly, despite his reputation for running away at the first sign of danger, simply leaving the bathroom hadn’t occurred to him. The second it did, that was precisely what he did, literally leaving the 911 operator hanging, the phone dangling from its cord, as he bolted from the master bathroom as fast as his fat little legs would carry him.
