The Legends of Twisted Felix Katt (Book 3)

(13) Munchkinland

Don’t worry about what others think… Most people don’t use their brain very often – Venkat Desireddy

Days like I’ve been having lately need to come with a warning when you wake up. Something like a sign saying ‘do not get out of bed, the universe has the dumb today’, or ‘the powers that be have it out for you, put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye’. I distinctly remember there being days, hell weeks even, where people weren’t trying to kill me, hunt me down or otherwise do uncomfortable things to my precious hide. If you give me a moment, I might even be able to tell you what year that moment of peace happened in. Okay, maybe not. I DO know that I am getting mighty sick and mightier tired of finding a place to weather the metaphorical storm and lick my not so metaphorical wounds. We all know Murphy loves me best, because here I am about to slump into I quit mode when a Shuffle hits. Wonderful. Fantastic. Thank you Goddess I LOVE these moments of ‘never think that it can’t get worse’, because inevitably then it WILL.

In the last year I’ve been through a few crazy Shuffles. I’ve been a ninja, been to Nottingham, got miniaturized and even played merry hob with gravity. So when the Shuffle hits and I’m suddenly standing a whole three feet tall, I know that this is just another glorious page in the book of my life, with you as my captive audience. Poor you. Poor me.

Rorick and I had been in the process of jettisoning a deactivated space pirate sloop I’ve stored in my cargo hold. They attacked first and when I won, I kept their gear as the due spoils of space war. Cheery thought, that. Inside my spoils of victory, there is a cheery little blinking light which is the only evidence that I’ve moved Destiny’s beacon. All registered ships need to have one to land at civilized space ports or dock dirtside. It was supposed to be a simple matter of moving the beacon into the junker and shove it off into space to watch from a safe distance. A bit harder when I’m suddenly a lot littler than I should be.

“What?” I demand and horror of all horrors, a little girl’s voice pipes out the words instead of my much more intimidating growl. Oh no. Oh frickle freckle NO. My neck nearly creaks as I snap my head over, looking for one of two things; either a mirror or my Rorick. Either one will give me confirmation that I am indeed the Universe’s most unlucky evolutionary failure. The terrified looking six year old with the hauntingly familiar visage for my reflection is almost anticlimactic compared to the panic already riding me like a pony at rodeo. The Shuffle has turned me back into a child. The age I’d been when my whole world took a terrible step to the left. A faintly queasy feeling hit me as I turned to burst into action and the six year old body didn’t react with the trained reflexes I’m a wee bit dependent on. Random gravity check, aisle one.

“Dude, that’s just not alright.” I whine and it’s a literal whine. My memory of this age has been kind, because I really hate the sound of my own voice suddenly. And I didn’t think I’d ever even noticed what I really sounded like back then.

And then, because I need a little weird and hilarious in my life, Rorick honed in on my voice and came into view in the cargo bay, checking on me. “Felix!” the little lion roared. His voice had yet to develop the gravelly growl I’m accustomed to, and his twelve year old voice has the breaks in it that proclaim puberty.

I’ve been in love with Rorick for years now and for most of this solar year we’ve been revelling in a state of intimacy we’d denied ourselves for WAY too long. But looking at him as a twelve year old really left me at a loss for words. The baby face was a shock but what really struck the words from my skull is the cruel twist this Shuffle has done; Roar didn’t have a blood slave collar on as a twelve year old child.

Before I can get my proverbial feet under me from that realization, my ears are assaulted by this high pitched squeal that is something between pterodactyl and steam being compressed through a pipe. I can feel my eyes widen as Rorick and I share that trademark moment of ‘oh shit it’s Van’, before the terror herself arrived. Rorick’s changed had left me lost; Van’s left me in tears on the floor, holding my belly and trying not to pee myself. At twelve, Roar’s body is already showing hints of the size he’s bloomed out to be normally, but Van’s regular look was short to begin with. As a four year old though, she is all hair. An ambulatory, scarlet tuft of curls scampering towards me with alacrity.