Tevun-Krus #100

9 - Dax Magraw, Peacekeeper Trombonist - @guywortheyauthor - MusePunk/CatPunk

Dax Magraw, Peacekeeper Trombonist

by guywortheyauthor

"Get lost," said the massive, fuzzy bouncer. "Ya little alien spitball. Fshk!"

He (or maybe she) whapped the door to the nightclub shut. If I hadn't flinched and jerked my head backwards, the door would've broken my nose. "Hey!" I said. But I said it to a closed door. I huffed, readjusted my backpack, and shuffled in a circle to face the entertainment district. All the bright billboards and flashing signs made my eyes water.

My eyes would be watering more if the door had broken my nose just then. Fortune had granted me about an inch of grace, but I found my narrow escape to be ominous, and in keeping with recent gloominess at the Patrol green room. Downhill, that's where things were headed. Not long ago, we "alien spitballs" were universally adored. But the glam had lost its shine, apparently. I saw more signs of it every day.

I squinted past a sign for professional grooming (The City's Most Talented Tongues!) to try to spy if there was an alleyway, but I couldn't tell. To the left I trudged, with care because sometimes there were messes to avoid on the sidewalks.

Where does a cat go for fun? Right here. Downtown Ikth, 3rd savannah belt quadrant, on a world the Federation dubbed "nu Ophiuchi c 1." The natives call it Ar, and we aliens called it Catworld.

It was an insult to be called a spitball but perfectly accurate to be called an alien. I hail from Terra, and I'm a small hairless warm-blooded biped. The cats, or "Ksss," are also bipeds, but luxuriantly furry. I look upwards to meet the eyes of the shortest of Ksss adults, and they are powerful masses of bone and muscle. Fangs, claws, whiskers, gaudy jewelry, and potent perfumes complete the typical Ksss ensemble. Only Ksss afflicted with the mange wore clothes.

A Ksss staggered toward me out of the glare. He (or she – the two sexes look and sound the same) stank of wine and slug mucous. I dodged him with alacrity. If I tangled his legs and he fell on me and then he passed out, I'd be done for. I'd never see my buddies at the green room again.

That would be a pity. The new keyboardist from Alpha Centauri had started a 20thcentury club that had really brightened our off-duty hours. Ragtime, blues, and jazz fascinated me. But I wasn't off duty. Focus, Magraw, focus.

Past the drunk, I saw my alley and slipped into its darkness. The back door to the club should be back there, somewhere, amid smells of spoiled meat, stomach acid, and excrement. They couldn't keep Dax Magraw, trombonist, out of some shabby cat dive.

My foot slid in something slimy. I cringed, but I didn't look down. I didn't want to know. The cats of Ar managed somehow to be insufferably vain and yet disgustingly messy at the same time. For example, they had excellent indoor plumbing but only used it if the whim took them. Also, their enlightened and orderly planetary government contrasted with the near-anarchy that reigned in their cities. That's why the Patrol was here, to keep the peace.

And I? I was a Peacekeeper, solo certified. We had a reliable rumor that Silver Mowk and his gang planned to hit this drinking hole tonight. The dive I was just bounced out of, that is. I was here to stop him.

Now, don't get the idea that I'm brave or anything. The cats terrify me, and they can and will rip each other to bloody shreds. Once in a great while, one of us offworlders gets themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and ends up butchered. We are smaller and softer than the natives, and slower as well. But I do not intend to let it get that far. "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent," said one of my kind long ago. I was armed with a trombone, and I was not afraid to use it.