The Dungeon of Doom. John R. Erickson

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      Okay, that was IT. I was finished with this ranch and the ungrateful people who lived on it. I had given them the best years of my life and this was the thanks I got. I had no choice but to resign my position as Head of Ranch Security, quit in disgrace, leave the hateful place, and spend the rest of my days wandering in the wilderness, eating bugs and grub worms.

      I whirled around and was about to march off to a lonely exile in the wilderness, when I ran into someone. A cat. Where had he come from? Only seconds before, he’d been nowhere in sight, but now . . .

      Have you ever noticed that at the very moment when you crave silence and wish to be alone with your thoughts, a cat shows up? I’ve noticed. It happens all the time around here. His name is Pete, and though he’s just a dumb little ranch cat, he has a genius for showing up at exactly the wrong times. If he were anything but a cat, you might begin to wonder if he’s really so dumb, but he is a cat, so that leaves just one explanation: dumb luck.

      The little creep was incredibly lucky, and his good luck is always bad luck for me, because I have no use for a cat. I have no use for a cat even on a good day, and on a bad day, such as the one we’re discussing, I’d sooner have warts than be in the company of a cat.

      But there he was—purring, rubbing on anything that didn’t kick him away, and wearing that insolent smirk that drives me nuts.

      I greeted him with a withering glare. “What are you doing here, you little sneak?”

      “Good morning, Hankie.”

      “Oh yeah? What’s so good about it?”

      “Well, the sun’s up and the dew is sparkling on the grass.”

      “Big deal. It was the same yesterday and the day before. So what?”

      “I noticed that we have a cowboy crew on the ranch, Hankie. Do you suppose they’re going to round up the pasture?”

      “Yes, I suppose they are. What’s your point?”

      He glanced around in a circle. “Well, Hankie, to be truthful, I was a little surprised that you didn’t . . . go with them.”

      His words caused my lips to twitch, exposing two rows of long white fangs. “I didn’t go with them, kitty, because I didn’t want to.”

      He heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh good. I was so afraid that . . . well, the thought occurred to me that maybe . . . you weren’t invited.”

      He started rubbing on my front legs. I moved a step backward. “Don’t touch me, you little reptile. Of course I was invited. They begged me to go, but I had other things to do.”

      “Oh really? Such as?”

      “Such as . . . the list is so long, I don’t have time to discuss it. Furthermore, it’s classified information and I’m not at liberty to reveal it to a cat. Sorry.”

      He sat down, wrapped his tail around his body, and began licking his paw with long slow strokes of his tongue. “It hurts to be left out, doesn’t it?”

      “I wouldn’t know about that, Pete. For your information, the Head of Ranch Security is wired into everything that happens on this . . .” I stuck my nose into his face. “What are you getting at? Is there some point to this conversation, or are you merely wasting my time?”

      “We cats are very observant, Hankie. We notice little details.”

      “Hurry up.”

      “We notice little details such as . . . a cowdog who isn’t invited to help with the cow work.”

      “I’ve already told you . . .”

      “Then a long face and a look of deepest despair.”

      “Lies, Pete.”

      He looked at me with his weird yellow eyes. “They left you out, Hankie, and now you’re feeling worthless and unwanted.”

      A growl began rumbling in depths of my throat, and in the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of Data Control: “Target is acquired and the weapon is ready for launch! Stand by for countdown.” Every muscle in my enormous body was tense and ready for the launch. “Three! Two! One!”

      I buried the little snot under the missile of my body, I mean, I rolled him up in a ball. But, you know, the funny thing about cats is that they never stay buried for long, so it came as no surprise, no great shock that he managed to . . . uh . . .wiggle out of the grisp of my grasp and buzzsaw my face with his claws. But that merely poured gasoline upon the embers of my righteous anger and made me even more determined to . . .

      BZZZZZZZT!

      A guy forgets how much damage a sniveling little cat can do with those claws, but the impoin­tant point is that I bulled my way through his defensive measures, took my lumps, and kept truckin’, sending the Kitty Army into blind, cowardly retreat. I chased him for twenty yards and ran him up a chinaberry tree.