Introduction:
Greetings, list subscribers:
The story that follows is a third installment in a 
continuing saga I started, innocently enough, in the 
spring of 1997. I just wrote one story, the whole 
thing got completely out of control, and before I 
knew it, had developed into this multi part absurd 
extravaganza. And there is still no end in sight!

The whole thing is called "The Quest for Nilo Quanta"
Part 1: "The Seventh Level"  find at this Url:  
http://www.fkfanfic.com/fanfic/t/thes2001.txt
Part 2: "The Return of the Uninvited": at the same 
address as above. Look under "F" for Fixx.
Part 3: "A Multitude of Friends" the very story you 
have here!
Part 4: "Phfft" Coming soon!

If you don't have the time or the patience to read 
parts 1 and 2, I can't blame you. Suffice to say that 
in "The Seventh Level", too many levels of reality 
intersected in the same place (Nick's loft) and pan-
dimensional chaos resulted. Nick barely escaped w/ 
his life (or unlife). 

In "The Return of the Uninvited" Nick discovered that 
his apartment had become the focus of a pan 
dimensional reality rift, met Ali Baba and the Forty 
Thieves, plugged the rift physically w/ his piano, 
and acquired a pair of talking cats as permanent 
houseguests. A lot of other stuff happened too, but 
these are the salient points. The story that follows 
takes place several months after the close of "The 
Return of the Uninvited".

Disclaimer: These characters and situations are the 
property of Sony/Tristar and I am only twisting  Nick 
and Co. monstrously out of shape momentarily.

Beta Readers: Many thanks to Nancy Kaminski and 
Kristine Ward, over-achieving betas w/ nerves of 
steel. They somehow manage to keep me from looking 
like an illiterate grammar-slob and criminal author. 
If you like this story, thank them. If you don't, 
blame me.

Warnings: There are a few four letter words in this 
story, including one really, really naughty one. 
Apologies in advance for any offense caused.

Thanks for putting up with a VERY long introduction. 
On with the show:


A Multitude of Friends: 

It was, without doubt, a tricky situation. No one 
knew what to do. It was a Saturday night, the joint 
was jumping, and business couldn't have been better. 
Except for the problem with the owner's private 
quarters, which were strictly off-limits, to anyone, 
at any time, on pain of extreme and diabolical 
punishment.

There wasn't a single soul at the Raven that night 
who wanted to be the one to explain to LaCroix why 
those selfsame sacrosanct quarters now contained one 
extremely unreasonable vampire, who had somehow 
barricaded himself inside, and wouldn't even listen 
when Miklos begged him to please, please get out 
before LaCroix came back.

"Please, Nick!" Miklos pleaded. "He'll be back any 
minute!"

"I've GOT to get some sleep," was the only reply. 
Nick had been saying that, in that same sepulchral 
voice, over and over, ever since he'd stormed into 
the bar two hours earlier. 

He'd looked like hell, too, thought Vachon, who'd 
come to the door of LaCroix' rooms to try to talk to 
Nick at Miklos' insistence. There'd been great dark 
hollows under Nick's eyes, he'd appeared to have 
dropped twenty pounds, his shoes hadn't matched and 
there'd been an icy hint of madness in his bleary 
stare.

Miklos said: "He won't blame YOU, damn it, Nick! 
He'll kill ME!"

"Oh, he'll blame me, all right," said the wan voice 
on the other side of the door. "Never fear. But I 
don't care. I've GOT to get some sleep."

Nick had gone directly to LaCroix' sanctum once he'd 
entered the bar, not saying a word to anyone, and 
running over any vampire who'd been dumb enough to 
get in his path. Not that many had been. It was 
common knowledge that LaCroix' protege was demented, 
even if LaCroix, himself, had made it clear that he 
would deal harshly with anyone who said as much. And, 
although many could easily understand why Nicholas 
might be unbalanced, considering who his master was, 
no one really wanted to get in his way when he was on 
a tear. In his own crazed way, he was almost as scary 
a guy as his sire.

"Why can't you get some sleep in your own place?" 
asked Vachon, cutting right to the heart of the 
matter, as usual.

An eerie sound of misery floated out past the door. 
It was something like a hiss, and something like a 
moan, and a lot like an October wind wailing through 
a grove of cypresses. Miklos and Vachon had both been 
supernatural entities for a long time, but even they 
were spooked by the ghastly sound.

"What on earth is making that dreadful noise?" said a 
cold, mellifluous voice behind them. "And what is it 
doing in my private chambers, IF I may be so bold, 
Miklos?" 

Miklos jumped. Vachon hunched over and jammed his 
fists into his jeans pockets. Neither one could find 
the right words to answer LaCroix, and both guiltily 
avoided his eyes.

"Well?" LaCroix asked ominously.

"You won't like it," said Vachon, at last.

The door snicked open before the conversation could 
progress any further, and a long, slim hand came out 
and fastened on LaCroix' coatsleeve.

"I need to talk to you," said the voice on the other 
side of the door. The sound of dead leaves rattling 
in winter gutters was in that voice.

"I might have known it would have something to do 
with you, Nicholas," said LaCroix. 

He couldn't help being snide; it was his nature, but 
he was truly concerned by the hollow sound of 
Nicholas' voice. He allowed himself to be drawn past 
the partially opened door, and disappeared inside. 
The door swung shut after him. 

Vachon and Miklos looked at each other for a moment, 
then headed back toward the main room of the bar.

"THAT went better than I expected," said Vachon.

"Unless they start one of their things later. The two 
of them had a regular wing-ding in the bar just last 
month. You should have seen the place. Looked like a 
bomb went off in here. And who do you think always 
gets stuck with the cleaning up, after?" 

Inside LaCroix' chambers, another conversation was 
taking place.

"I've GOT to get some sleep . . ."

"Nicholas, if you don't stop saying that - "

"Just for the day. That's all I'm asking. I've GOT to 
- "

"STOP. Not another word. What's gotten into you? 
You're not possessed again, are you?" 

"No. No. I'm just . . . tired. I'll sleep in that 
laundry basket over there, if it's all right."

"Are you mad? That's a two by three basket. You have 
a perfectly good bed at home, Nicholas. Perhaps 
you've forgotten."

"No, Princess and the new litter have taken over the 
bed. I HAD been using the couch, but I can't take the 
parties anymore, you know, they all talk so LOUD, and 
the lessons, too, so I started going in the closet, 
but Fluffy and Smoky Joe are meeting in there to 
mate, so they asked me to get out, so, then there was 
the tub, but then there are all the reality breaks, 
and this sea-sick sea serpent was in the tub, and 
this little boy with a propeller on his hat, so then 
- "  

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF JUPITER ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

"Cats," said Nick, softly, in the same tone someone 
else might have used to say chronic lower back pain. 
"It's all these cats. And the fictional characters. 
You never know when they're going to show up. Or 
where." he stopped and took a long ragged breath and 
ran a hand over his haggard face. "I can't sleep, 
LaCroix. And I've GOT to get -"

"NO!" interrupted LaCroix. "Not again!" He believed 
that if he heard Nicholas say that one more time, 
he'd have to go out and kill something before the 
night was over.

"Clearly, something is amiss," LaCroix went on. 
"You'll need to tell me exactly what - Nicholas?" He 
stopped. Nicholas' head had fallen against the wall 
and he'd drifted off where he stood.

"What all this is about," he finished, wryly. Looking 
at his unconscious protege, LaCroix noticed, for the 
first time, that Nicholas was wearing mismatched 
shoes and his shirt was not only wrinkled at the 
cuffs, but seemed to be sporting a number of cat 
hairs in addition. LaCroix cast his mind back over 
their long association, and found he could not recall 
a time when Nicholas had ever been anything less than 
immaculate. The younger vampire was the most 
compulsively neat individual LaCroix had ever known.

Seriously alarmed now, he moved to Nicholas' side, 
and gently tugged him away from the wall. He needn't 
have been gentle. Nicholas barely stirred as LaCroix 
half walked, half carried him towards the sofa. Once 
there, Nicholas sank bonelessly onto the upholstery, 
turned once, folded his hands onto his chest in 
somnolent mimicry of a 13th century burial pose, and 
was dead to the world.

He looks so . . . worn, LaCroix was thinking. What 
CAN have been happening to him? He reached out to the 
sleeping vampire and allowed himself to just skim the 
skin of Nicholas' sunken cheek with his outstretched 
hand. A caress that Nicholas would never have 
permitted, had he been awake, nor would LaCroix have 
offered. 

"Ah, well, I suppose I must go see what sort of 
muddle you've gotten yourself into this time . . ." 
LaCroix said quietly. "Sleep well, Nicholas. I'll 
return shortly."

A few minutes later, LaCroix was on the roof of 
Nicholas' building, pulling at the brand new Yale 
padlock he'd discovered on the skylight. He was quite 
provoked to find such a device attached to what he 
considered to be his very own particular entrance to 
the loft. He was doubly provoked to realize just how 
long it had been since he'd last been by here. Long 
enough for his troublesome protege to have installed 
this personal affront to LaCroix on his skylight, at 
any rate. He squished the offending lock with an 
irritated sniff and tossed it over the side.

To further intensify his growing state of 
aggravation, the sound of voices emanated from inside 
the loft, a great many voices, and not one among them 
was one that LaCroix recognized. He had always kept a 
meticulous mental catalogue of all Nicholas' known 
associates, mortal or otherwise, and was completely 
confounded to discover that the younger vampire had 
somehow acquired a whole houseful of new friends 
without his knowing about it. It sounded like some 
kind of cocktail party was going on in there. One of 
the "parties" the exhausted Nicholas had mentioned in 
his odd ramblings earlier?

One particularly cultured voice rose, for a moment, 
above the rest. 

"A poltergeist is a principal type of material 
manifestation."

What? What did that mean? Who was in there?

Discretion may well be the better part of valor, in 
this instance, LaCroix told himself, and swooped off 
the roof. Moments later, he was ascending to the loft 
level via elevator. He'd decided to use conventional 
methods to make his entrance to the loft. Who knew 
what he might find inside? It wouldn't do to tip his 
hand too early in the game.

As he rose toward the loft door, he noticed that 
there seemed to be an inordinate amount of meowing 
mixed in with the general cocktail party chat. 
Nicholas HAD said something about cats, hadn't he? 
Looking above himself as he rose, he also noticed 
that the loft door had been propped open with a fifty 
pound bag of Friskies Cat Chow.

"A poultry guy in invincible stripes of cereal 
infestation."

It sounded as though quite a number of voices had 
said that last. Youthful voices. Rather like a group 
of children reciting a lesson in a classroom.

And there WERE cats in the loft. LaCroix had scented 
them. Quite a number of them, too.

The elevator came to a stop at the door of the loft, 
and LaCroix peered into Nicholas' apartment. A long 
moment passed. His eyes went wide and his mind 
boggled. He'd walked the earth for two millennia, and 
in all that time, he'd never once seen ANYTHING to 
equal the sheer freakishness of the sight that was 
now before him.

There were cats everywhere. Cats on the counter in 
the kitchen. Cats lolling on the couch. Cats romping 
up and down the stairs. Cats eating out of the cat 
dishes that were placed in every spare nook and 
cranny. Cats watching a figure skating match on 
television. Cats playing what looked to be a game of 
Scrabble at the kitchen table. Cats curled up in the 
bookcases, reading Nicholas' books. Everywhere 
LaCroix' stunned gaze lighted, there he found a cat. 
There must have been hundreds of them.

A sleek black and white cat stood before a small 
blackboard on casters that had been arranged in the 
center of the room. The letters of the alphabet had 
been carefully printed on this blackboard in block 
characters. A group of some fifty kittens attended to 
the black and white cat as she repeated, "Now class, 
in the immortal words of the great Walt Kelly: 'A 
poltergeist is a principal type of material 
manifestation.'"

The kittens did their best to repeat what their elder 
had said.

"A soldier bites is a prehensile tripe of sidereal 
manifold rations."

"Well,' said the black cat. "That's a little better. 
But we still need to work on it. Snowball, you try it 
now, by yourself, okay?"

A white Persian kitten hid its nose bashfully in its 
paws and declined the invitation.

A small, gray female with a pink nose was watching 
the skating match from the peculiar vantage point of 
the top of the television set. She hung over the edge 
of the screen, and followed the elegant moves of a 
particularly fine Brian Boitano routine with a fluffy 
white paw.

"See, Ramses," she said to an Abyssinian tom seated 
on the couch nearby. "It's all technique. Look at 
that Tano lutz!"

"I still like Kurt Browning better, GF," demurred 
Ramses. "Boitano can't even do a back-flip. Besides, 
Kurt's Canadian."

The gray cat suddenly bounced out of her half on, 
half off position on the TV top and sniffed the air 
sharply.

"Nick?" she said, sniffing. "No . . .wait . . . HEY!" 

"Nick?" said a Siamese near the armchair who'd heard 
the GF. "Nick's back? Did he remember to bring the 
Fancy Feast?"

"Is Nick back?" asked a tabby from the kitchen. "I 
told him we were almost out of litter when he left."

A marmalade male poked his head out under the railing 
at the top of the stairs and said: "Did someone say 
Nick was back? Ask him where the flea powder is. I 
just saw it up here yesterday."

The small gray cat the others were calling GF wasn't 
listening to the proliferating cries for Nick. She 
looked directly toward the door where LaCroix was 
still standing, still trying to force his mind to 
process the evidence of his senses.

"8-Ball! Look!" she said. "There's a GUY at the door! 
And he's one of those whatchamacallits, like Nick."

The black and white cat cut off the speech lessons 
she'd been conducting and stared at LaCroix. She 
tensed at the sight of him and began muttering a list 
of physical attributes and characteristics that she'd 
obviously memorized at some earlier date.

"Cold eyes. White skin. Angular features. Short nose. 
Haughty expression. Imposing height. Dressed entirely 
in black. Looks like something out of a Wes Craven 
film. Doesn't even TRY to pass for human . . . GF, 
it's HIM, the one Nyx warned us about!" 

LaCroix heard this as "the one NICK warned us about" 
and was deeply offended by the summation of his 
appearance that he thought Nick had offered these 
cats. Of all the effrontery, he thought, angrily. 
Short nose, indeed!

The GF said: "You don't mean . . ."

The one called 8-Ball said: "I do mean! It's him! The 
- "

"THE VET!" the GF screeched, and all her fur stood on 
end. 

Every one of the three hundred odd cats and kittens 
in the loft looked toward LaCroix for a split second, 
then all screeched in unison, at ultra-top volume, in 
imitation of the GF. "THE VE-E-E--ET-T!"

LaCroix clapped his white hands to his extremely 
sensitive ears with a very credible screech of his 
own, and fell to his knees in abject agony.

"Everybody, SCATTER!" shouted 8-Ball, and three 
hundred cats disappeared in the blink of an eye.

They need not have bothered with such a precaution. 
LaCroix was totally incapacitated for at least a 
quarter of an hour. 

When he found that he was able to stand without 
losing his balance and falling over (the blast of 
feline yowling had done something drastic to his 
inner ears, thus upsetting his equilibrium), he rode 
the elevator down to the street level and staggered 
out of the building. 

He looked up the street unhappily. There would be no 
flying on this night. Not when he was in a state that 
very nearly precluded walking. It was a long way back 
to the Raven, and, of course, he'd never thought to 
bring a car. He, had, in fact, never learned to 
drive.

It occurred to him that he'd just been thoroughly 
routed by a pack of kitties, and he ought to have 
been planning some baroque revenge instead of 
lurching like a derelict down a deserted street. But, 
he reflected, he'd never been accused of being a 
veterinarian by three hundred cats at once before, 
and the experience had proven both painful and 
unsettling. He was simply not himself.

"It might have been worse," he consoled himself, 
shakily. "At least I can still stagger. I might have 
been forced to CRAWL back."

Back at the Raven, in LaCroix' rooms, Nick was 
sleeping on the couch. He had been dreaming of a 
paradise where all the rivers ran with type O (his 
personal favorite), and the sun was a red dwarf that 
any vampire could shrug off with ease, and cats were 
an unknown species, and creators of fiction were 
strangled at birth.

A searing bolt of horrifying pain intruded itself 
upon this dream, rocketed through Nick's ears, and 
all but scrambled his brain. He fell off the sofa, 
clapped his hands over his ears, and screamed.

"LaCroix . . ." he said, once the pain had eased 
enough for him to stop screaming. "The meddling FOOL! 
He's gone to the loft! There's no telling what those 
cats have done to him!"

Nick shook off the dizziness that he knew he was 
experiencing second-hand, through the ethereal link 
he shared with his mentor, and lurched to his feet. 
Alarm helped to get him moving, and he made his way 
through the now deserted barroom and out to his car. 
He'd already climbed into the driver's seat and put a 
hand to the ignition before he realized his car keys 
were still inside the bar.

A weird non-verbal cry of irritation, frustration, 
and worry escaped his lips as he ran back inside to 
retrieve the keys.

Nick found LaCroix leaning woozily against a lamp 
post about seven blocks from the loft. It was a lucky 
thing for LaCroix that he did, since it was 5:17 AM 
and the sun would be coming up sooner rather than 
later.

Nick jumped the curb beside the lamp post, shifted 
into park, hit the automatic trunk opener button and 
leapt out of the Caddy.

"Come on," he ordered, grabbing LaCroix round the 
shoulders and hustling him toward the trunk.

"Nicholas?" asked LaCroix, blearily. "Nicholas, did 
you tell those disgusting animals I have a short 
nose?"

Nick had no idea what his sire was talking about and 
didn't care one way or the other. He dragged the 
taller man to the edge of the trunk and started 
trying to stuff him in there. LaCroix balked when he 
caught sight of where he was being directed and he 
drew back.

"Get in," Nick commanded. "Right now."

"I have no intention of EVER spending a moment's time 
in the trunk of a car, Nicholas. Not even a Cadillac. 
So stop SHOVING."

"Get in or we're BOTH going to fry! The sun's coming 
up and I still have to park this heap," Nick snarled, 
and gave LaCroix a really emphatic push.  The older 
vampire fell over into the trunk and Nick shut the 
lid on him before he could protest.

I'm dead, Nick thought, as he hurriedly Braille-
parked in a too-small alley behind a Thai restaurant. 
He'll tear my damn head off for this.

He ran around to the tail end of the Caddy, quickly 
opened the trunk, and jumped in before LaCroix had 
the chance to erupt out of the small space. A quick 
pull on the handle Nick had installed on the inside 
of the trunk door, and he was enclosed in the cramped 
darkness with one monumentally infuriated vampire.

Cold hands scrabbled over his face and then seized 
him by the throat. Incoherent growling, snarling, 
spitting, and hissing filled the motor-oil redolent 
air.

"Gah. . . !" Nick said. 

He reached up and managed to loosen the throttling 
hands enough to talk. "There's no room in here for 
this! You're just going to have to CALM DOWN!"

LaCroix wasn't ready to calm down. The Cadillac 
rocked to and fro and a variety of horrible sounds 
filled the dawn lit alley. An unfortunate rat that 
had been intent on raiding the restaurant dumpster 
for Thai leftovers happened to overhear what was 
going on in the Caddy and dropped dead of sheer 
fright.

"Let go!" Nick croaked as best he could through a 
severely constricted windpipe. "We're stuck in here 
until dusk and that's at least twelve hours off. AND 
I just saved your worthless life, incidentally."

The hands on Nick's throat loosened slightly.

"Besides" said Nick. "You know you're not REALLY 
going to kill me, anyway."

The hands finally slid away and the feral noises 
stopped after a moment

"You might be right," the beautiful, malign voice 
admitted. "I probably won't kill you. I haven't 
COMPLETELY ruled it out, mind you, but it is 
improbable at this juncture. That doesn't mean, 
however, that I don't intend to make your life a hell 
on earth from now on. Because I DO, Nicholas. Rest 
assured."

"Gosh," was the sarcastic reply. "You mean you're not 
going to be NICE to me anymore?"

"Oh, how droll. Let's see how YOU take a joke after 
we get out of here."

"Fine. Whatever. In the meantime, would you do 
something for me?"

"It would not be wise to add insult to injury, 
Nicholas. What is it?"

"Be quiet. Please. I've GOT to get some sleep."

A primal scream of ultimate rage and a furious tattoo 
of savage thuds rent the air in the small alley 
behind the Thai restaurant. Time passed. The sun made 
it's long, slow trek through the sky and cast its 
changing net of light over a chartreuse Cadillac, a 
restaurant dumpster, and a dead rat. 

Some twelve odd hours later, two very unhappy 
vampires stalked into the Raven. LaCroix had oil 
stains on his shirtfront, a black eye, a left hand 
that hung at an odd angle from the wrist, multiple 
cuts, abrasions and bruises, and the Devil himself 
might have trembled before the look on his face. Nick 
followed, walking as though he'd somehow swallowed a 
poker, a good six paces behind LaCroix. They passed 
through the bar, both doggedly ignoring the stares 
and whispers that attended their trip through the 
crowded room.

Vachon and Urs, who had been holding down barstools 
since opening time, turned as LaCroix passed by, and 
goggled at his state of disrepair. They goggled anew 
as Nick passed, a moment later.

"Dios mio!" said Vachon, blinking at Nick in 
astonishment. "What the hell happened to you? You 
look like you got caught in a Cuisinart!"

"Ask the fucking Nightcrawler over there!" Nick 
hissed venomously, through a seriously mangled mouth. 

LaCroix, in a particularly vexed moment early in 
their stay in the trunk together, had actually 
stuffed his hand down Nick's throat and attempted to 
tear his tongue out by the roots. Nick had thwarted 
this drastic disciplinary measure by darn near biting 
the intruding appendage off at the wrist. Both sire 
and scion still bore the marks of that particular 
disagreement, as well as the multitude of others 
they'd had during the long day.

Both Urs and Vachon hunched over their drinks and 
asked no further questions. Nick never used bad 
language. Except when he'd had a blow-up with 
LaCroix, that was, and was skirting the outer edges 
of violent psychosis as a result. Best to let 
sleeping dogs lie.

The two battered vampires passed out of the barroom 
and into LaCroix' chambers.

"Look at me . . ." Nick was muttering to himself a 
bit later, as he spit teeth into the sink of LaCroix' 
service bathroom. "I'm a wreck. This coat is ruined!"

LaCroix, who was sitting on the couch outside the 
bathroom, heard every word perfectly, and had to 
silently will his hands not to draw into claws. One 
coat out of the hundreds he possesses gets a speck on 
it, he thought, and Nicholas enters a fugue state. He 
won't just throw the damn thing away. He'll probably 
take it out and burn it.

Upon entering the rooms, Nicholas had gone straight 
to the bathroom, slammed the door, locked it, and 
refused to say another word until he'd had a chance 
to get cleaned up.

I admit, in a way, it's my fault, LaCroix was telling 
himself. I chose him partly for his aesthetic value. 
The mania for cleanliness is intrinsic to that. 

Even in the middle ages, LaCroix reflected, before 
the former Crusader had embarked on his subsequent 
eventful career as a legendary monster, he had been 
relentlessly clean. The thirteenth century priests, 
who'd considered excessive bathing to be sinful, had 
given him hell for it, too.

I suppose the blatant sensuality wasn't exactly a 
point in his favor either, ecclesiastically speaking, 
LaCroix added mentally.

The consideration of his supreme creation's finer 
aspects was putting LaCroix into a better frame of 
mind, as it always did. His left hand was healing, 
and had actually started to function almost normally 
again. The ringing in his ears he'd suffered ever 
since the dreadful creatures in Nicholas' loft had 
blasted him was fading, and he had most of his 
balance back. All in all, he felt almost ready to 
apply his formidable intellect to the bizarre new 
complications in his protege's life.

Nicholas emergence from the bathroom helped cement 
his resolve. He may be fussy, LaCroix thought, but, 
truly, it's worth it. Nicholas looked almost as 
perfect as ever, save for the slightly snaggle-
toothed appearance of his mouth, where some of his 
teeth were still growing back. White, gold, and blue, 
LaCroix was thinking. A face that's a simulacrum of a 
summer day. So deliciously ironic in a vampire. . . 

Still, it wouldn't do to be too lenient. One couldn't 
give Nicholas too much leeway. He'd run you down in a 
minute if you let him.

"Nicholas, I believe you're aware of my views on 
pets."

"I'm aware that you're so unbelievably possessive 
that you perceive even a dog as a rival." said 
Nicholas bitterly.

"That mangy animal was a singularly ill-behaved 
brute, and desperately needed to be put down!" 
LaCroix retorted, taking the offensive at once. He 
still felt a little guilty about the ultimate fate of 
Raleigh the Rottweiler, and secretly suspected that 
his behavior, in that affair, had probably been 
indefensible. He moved on quickly. "Be that as it 
may, may I venture to suggest that the acquisition of 
three hundred talking cats could be considered an 
overreaction?

"You don't acquire cats, LaCroix. They acquire you. 
And they weren't all talking, at first."

"Then I must further suggest that you have taken your 
passion for languages too far."

"I only taught a few of them. Then 8-Ball and the GF 
took over, and - "

"GF?"

"The Gray Fiend."

LaCroix formed a hazy mental image of a small gray 
fluffy cat, who had seemed to admire the skating of 
Brian Boitano a great deal.

"None of us realized how popular it would get, the 
lessons, I mean," Nicholas went on. "Even 8-Ball was 
surprised, and she's almost never caught flat-footed. 
One cat tells another cat, and before you know it, 
they're coming from miles around to learn to talk. 
And bringing their kittens. Did you see the kittens?"

"Yes, Nicholas, I saw them." LaCroix answered, with a 
soft, dangerous edge in his voice.

"Cute, aren't they?" said Nicholas, and broke into a 
particularly daffy smile.

"Nicholas . . ." LaCroix warned glacially.

Nicholas hurriedly went on: "Anyway, once a cat has 
learned to talk, where can it go? Back home? To be 
exploited by its owner and wind up reciting the 
Gettysburg address on the Jerry Show? I couldn't send 
them back, so, we'd been letting them stay in the 
loft until I could make other arrangements. I just 
hadn't expected there'd be so MANY of them. I just 
needed to get away for a day, and . . . well . . . 
sleep." 

He looked, cautiously, at LaCroix, checking for any 
signs of another eruption. 

"I'm positively agog to hear what 'arrangements' 
you've made." LaCroix said snidely, but calmly, much 
to Nicholas' relief.

"Why, I bought a building downtown, of course. What 
else? They have to live somewhere, and we've decided 
to continue the classes, after all. There's so much 
demand . . . I'm thinking of calling it the Brabant 
School of Alternative Linguistic Sciences. Completely 
non species-specific curriculum." Nick paused, and 
smiled shyly at LaCroix. "What do you think?"

LaCroix was wondering if Nicholas had always been 
insane, or had just quietly gone insane over the past 
few hundred years. No, it was probably innate. 
Something organic, perhaps? A birth defect?

"It'll be your crowning glory, Nicholas. You've 
managed to devise your most demented project yet! A 
new high in crack-brained undertakings. What a 
triumph." LaCroix laughed weakly.

"Hmmph." Nicholas snorted, offended. "I might have 
known YOU wouldn't care about education." 

LaCroix really had no retort for such seamless 
illogic. In all truth, he'd never had a truly 
effective way to refute Nicholas' convoluted mental 
processes and the mad conclusions they spawned. The 
younger vampire could wield stupidity like a weapon. 
So, in a way, he was glad when the phone rang and 
interrupted the interview.

He reached for the phone, and answered, "LaCroix."

It was Miklos: "Uh . . . it's for Nick. Outside line. 
Is he still in there?"

LaCroix glanced icily at his protege. "A call for 
you, Nicholas. Do you still have this number listed 
under your name in the Toronto Directory? May I tell 
him who's calling, please?" He added sardonically 
into the phone. He listened for a moment, then 
addressed Nicholas in a stage whisper: "It's 8-Ball. 
Are you in?"

Nicholas yanked the phone receiver out of LaCroix' 
hand and said: "Put her on, Miklos . . . 8-Ball? 
What's wrong . . . WHAT? . . .The flying monkeys? 
Again? But how did they get in - what? The skylight? 
But I just LOCKED that last week . . .What? Some 
idiot took the padlock OFF? . . . But who would . . . 
"  Nicholas broke off suddenly and shot a furious 
glance at LaCroix. "Never mind, 8. No, don't worry, 
I'll be right there."

"I've got to go," he said to LaCroix, as he quickly 
gathered up his car keys, and, LaCroix noted, the 
ruined coat. "Thanks a lot, by the way. You just HAD 
to get rid of that padlock, didn't you? Now my place 
is full of flying monkeys."

"Dear me. Talking cats, flying monkeys, what next? 
Singing eels? Students of yours, perhaps?"

"Fictional characters, of course. Haven't you been 
listening to a word I've said?" Nicholas answered 
irritably, as he ran toward the door. LaCroix rose 
from the couch and followed him, scarcely aware he 
was doing it.

"Damn!" Nicholas was mumbling to himself. "The entire 
place was a shambles, last time they got in."

LaCroix followed Nicholas down the hall and into the 
barroom.

"WHAT fictional characters, Nicholas?"

"Well, I think they might be from the "Wizard of Oz", 
but I'm really not sure." Nick said over his shoulder 
as he barreled through the dance floor, regardless of 
all obstacles, and all indignant cries of protest as 
well.

"No. I mean WHY are there fictional characters flying 
around your apartment?" LaCroix explained, with a 
surprising degree of patience. They passed out the 
front door of the club and into the street.

"Oh, reality/fiction crisis. We went up to the 
seventh level in there, last winter. And beyond. Even 
8-Ball's not certain just how far above the cut-off 
point we got, before it was over."

He ran around to the trunk of his car, opened it, and 
began to rummage around in the deepest recesses of 
the compartment. He emerged with a large deep sea 
fishing net clutched in one hand.

So THAT'S what was poking into my back all day, 
LaCroix thought, inconsequentially.

"Natural law deranges, under such conditions," 
Nicholas went on. "the space/time/reality/fiction 
continuum develops a warp at the site of a reality 
break like the one we had. The levels bleed into one 
another, one level of fiction intrudes on the next, 
and the entire dimensional structure of a setting 
loses cohesion. Understand?"

LaCroix burst out laughing. He simply couldn't stop 
himself. "What are you going to do with the net, 
Nicholas?" he managed to choke out, then burst into 
another round of helpless guffaws.

"Catch monkeys." said Nicholas stiffly. 

This bald statement of intent sent LaCroix into 
another fit of hysterics. Nicholas stalked around the 
side of the Caddy and got in without another word to 
his sire, who was laughing so hard he had to lean 
against the car to steady himself. 

Nicholas turned the engine over and looked back at 
LaCroix. "You might lend a hand, you know. They 
wouldn't have gotten in if you hadn't taken the lock 
off the skylight."

"Oh. . .oh, ah, really, I'm not certain I care to 
visit your home again just now. Not until you've 
returned to a more conventional domestic arrangement, 
at any rate. Thank you, though, for a unique 
invitation." LaCroix added, and snickered again. 

Nevertheless, he was coming to the end of his 
laughing jag, and had managed to find some degree of 
his usual self-control. The thought of facing 
Nicholas' three hundred vociferous houseguests once 
more had had a sobering influence on him.

"Well, if you're afraid - " Nicholas began softly, 
and added a subtle, calculated pause.

"I BEG your pardon?" LaCroix jumped in immediately. 
"Did I understand you to say - "

" - of a few little kitty-cats - "

"How DARE you suggest - "

" - there's no reason why I can't handle this on my 
own. After all - "

" - that I might be AFRAID of - "

" - I've been TRYING to tell you for centuries, that 
-"

" - ANYTHING AT ALL!"

" - I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!"

The two angry vampires glared at each other for a 
full minute.

"You miserable, manipulating, maneuvering WRETCH . . 
." LaCroix finally sighed, and got in the car.

Nicholas was very careful not to smile as he pulled 
the Caddy out into traffic.

Two hours later, two vampires and two cats had 
arrived at a rather strained working truce in a 
chaotic, but monkey-free, loft. 

The fishing net was propped against the end of the 
sofa. A new Yale padlock, purchased at exorbitant 
expense at a nearby 24 hour convenience store, had 
been affixed to the skylight. Several small fez-like 
caps with gold rick-rack trim were scattered here and 
there about the apartment. 

Nick was using a pail of hot water, a brush, and a 
bottle of disinfectant cleaner on a graffito that 
adorned the metal of the loft door. This message 
read: "Surrender Dorothy", and had been written with 
simian droppings. Nick was not happy about this task. 

LaCroix was sitting stiffly in the armchair near the 
fireplace, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant aroma 
wafting from the loft door, nursing a monkey bite on 
his thumb, and warily eyeing 8-Ball and the GF, who 
were staring at him disdainfully from under the sofa. 
LaCroix was not happy about any of these activities, 
nor about anything else that had occurred during the 
last twenty four hours.

The multitude of cats that infested Nicholas' 
apartment were nowhere to be seen, but that didn't 
mean they were absent, by any means, LaCroix 
reflected. Every so often, during the bizarre monkey 
hunt he and Nicholas had just conducted, he would 
catch sight of a pair of feline eyes, watching him 
from one obscure hiding place or another. 
Occasionally one of the awful creatures would hiss at 
him, and often that hissing would be verbal, and 
would contain some reference to veterinary medicine, 
in an accusatory context. Apparently, the mistaken 
notion that he was a vet was inextricably entrenched 
in the primitive brains of all three hundred of 
Nicholas' pointy-headed little associates.

He and Nicholas had made their way into the loft via 
the open skylight, the better to surprise the flying 
monkeys, so Nicholas had explained. They'd burst in 
on a scene out of a Bosch hell-scape. The monkeys 
were apparently intrinsically destructive, as they'd 
been systematically destroying, defacing or 
defecating on everything in sight when he and 
Nicholas had arrived. The stench had been diabolical. 
The noise had been infernal. It had been pandemonium.

It had taken the two vampires a full two hours to 
subdue the airborne simian hooligans. It would have 
been impossible for any non-flying pest control team 
to have had any success at all. 

Nicholas had flown directly from the skylight to the 
folding louver doors off the kitchen, and tugged the 
mushed remains of the piano out of the doorway. 
LaCroix had wondered momentarily, why Nicholas would 
have wanted to stuff his piano into a doorway that 
was clearly too narrow to accommodate it, but had 
abandoned this question in the confusion of ensuing 
events.

The doorway, once unplugged, had appeared to open on 
some unthinkable, limitless void, rather than the 
washer/dryer combination it had always housed during 
LaCroix' past visits. LaCroix had decided not to 
pursue the questions this circumstanceposed any more 
than he had the mystery of the piano. 

Nicholas had then plucked a monkey out of the air as 
it passed, and tossed it out into the void beyond the 
splintered louver doors. The angrily chattering brute 
had disappeared into the void with an odd whispery 
popping noise, similar to the sound a light bulb 
makes as it blows out. A sort of phfft sound. Another 
round of questions had arisen in LaCroix' mind, but 
he'd decided to defer those as well.

He'd followed the example Nicholas had set, and 
corralled monkeys for what seemed an eternity, and 
tossed each one through the doorway into the 
mysterious beyond. Each time one of the filthy things 
disappeared with a phfft, Nicholas' talk of 
dimensional crises had seemed to make more sense. 
Toward the end of the second hour, LaCroix had become 
so disgusted with the unpleasant removal project that 
he'd begun to snap each monkey's neck just before 
ejecting it. This vindictive death-dealing had drawn 
disapproving looks from Nicholas, but LaCroix really 
hadn't much cared what his absurdly scrupulous 
protege thought at that point.

Nicholas had just said something LaCroix hadn't 
caught. His thoughts returned to the present.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

"I said, why do you suppose they wrote 'Surrender 
Dorothy'?" Nicholas said, as he eyed the loft door 
for any remaining trace of offending material. "It 
doesn't make sense."

"Nicholas, don't tell me you've never seen 'The 
Wizard of Oz'?"

"Well, no. You know I don't like horror movies." He 
took the bucket and scrub brush into the kitchen, and 
began rinsing both out in the kitchen sink.

"Really, Nicholas, you must make some effort to keep 
abreast of twentieth century culture. 'The Wizard of 
Oz' is a children's classic."

"Impossible! What sort of degenerate mind would 
invent these disgusting monkeys? For children? What 
nonsense. You're thinking of a some other film." 

LaCroix bit back an annoyed reply. Once again, he was 
stymied by Nicholas' bizarrely logical illogic. 
Truly, the flying simian sociopaths really weren't 
suitable children's fare, when one thought about it. 

Not that a critical analysis of the oeuvre of L. 
Frank Baum was a high priority item on LaCroix' 
agenda just then.

"Nicholas, you cannot continue to live this way. 
Something must be done."

Nicholas put his cleaning supplies into the cabinet 
under the sink and returned to the living room. After 
a final, disturbed scan of the still messy, but no 
longer filthy, area, he shrugged tiredly and sat down 
on the couch.

"I suppose the rest can wait until later," he mused, 
and after a moment, put his feet up and stretched out 
at full length on the sofa. "Of course, you're right, 
LaCroix. I can't go on like this. I'm exhausted."

The Gray Fiend emerged from under the couch, shot an 
ugly look in LaCroix' direction, and then jumped up 
onto Nicholas' chest.

"Don't worry, Nick," she commiserated, purring. 
"We'll straighten this out. You'll see." She cuddled 
into his shoulder and began to suck on his shirt 
collar in an excess of affection. Nicholas absently 
put a hand to her head and stroked her gray fur. The 
GF kneaded the fabric of his shirtfront, and purred 
loudly.

LaCroix looked on this scene of mutual comfort and 
affection with cool contempt, and a surprisingly 
good-sized measure of jealousy as well. He wouldn't 
pet ME that way, came the unbidden thought to his 
mind. Not if I purred and sucked on his collar from 
now until doomsday. 

8-Ball came out from under the sofa then, and jumped 
onto the arm beside Nicholas' head. She pinned 
LaCroix with her unblinking yellow gaze for a moment, 
and he had the oddest feeling that the surge of 
absurd envy he'd been experiencing was crystal clear 
to the sleek black and white feline. There was an air 
of protectiveness in her graceful cattish pose beside 
her caretaker's head, and an unmistakable gleam of 
formidable intelligence in her golden stare.

"The Vet is right," she said. "Nick, the time has 
come for this to stop. None of us can tolerate these 
constant reality breaks. That's the second time this 
month those awful monkeys have trashed the place."

"I am NOT a vet, you ridiculous creature. For the 
millionth time!"

"Typical . . ." snorted 8-Ball, with cold disdain.

"They always lie." added the Gray Fiend knowingly, 
from Nicholas'shoulder. "That just PROVES he's a 
vet."

An amused smile was twitching the corners of 
Nicholas' mouth, although he was clearly making an 
effort not to laugh outright. A number of violent 
potential courses of action presented themselves to 
LaCroix' thought.

"Well, never mind," said Nicholas, as soon as he had 
his face under complete control. "The matter at hand 
is the dimensional integrity of this setting, not 
LaCroix' profession. The problem is getting worse, 
not better, as time passes, and you're both right," 
here he stopped, and nodded to 8-Ball and his mentor 
in turn, thus subtly reminding the seething LaCroix 
that he and the black and white cat did, indeed, have 
some common ground."The time to act is now, before 
the reality rift progresses any further."

"Excellent, Nicholas," LaCroix said. "The first 
sensible statement you've made tonight. Pack whatever 
you need. You may stay with me until you can find a 
new dwelling. You, if I may add a small caveat, are 
welcome. Your two little friends, and the rest of 
their tribe," he broke off and waved a hand at the 
apartment in general, "are not."

Nicholas, 8-Ball, and the GF all turned toward 
LaCroix and regarded him with undisguised disgust for 
a moment.

"Typical!" said 8-Ball, once more.

"And they call ME a fiend," said the GF.

"That's the most unregenerately irresponsible thing I 
think you've ever said to me, LaCroix," said 
Nicholas, shaking his head. "Even you can't seriously 
advocate I just LEAVE, surely? I've told you, the 
rift in reality is widening. The monkeys are 
materializing OUTSIDE these walls. Unless the reality 
breaks are stopped, and soon, this entire dimensional 
section of fiction will become involved. Ultimately, 
the whole space/time/fiction/reality continuum could 
be compromised."

"Pan-dimensional chaos." 8-Ball pronounced, 
uncompromisingly.

"We have to go to the source," said the GF, with a 
gleam in her green eyes. "It's the only way."

LaCroix found a number of undesirable elements in the 
last few remarks. He certainly didn't like being 
called irresponsible by Nicholas, who was not, by any 
means, an expert on the subject of responsibility. He 
liked being criticized by a pair of talking cats even 
less. He didn't like the ominous sound of their talk 
of pan-dimensional chaos. And he didn't like the 
direction the conversation seemed to be taking vis a 
vis "going to the source".

But, above all, he didn't like the look on Nicholas' 
face. He'd come to know that look, over the years. 
He'd come to think of it as the "dragon-slaying" 
look. The former knight's innate absolute lust for 
any kind of quest had never deserted him in all his 
years as a vampire, despite all of LaCroix' efforts 
to squash it. The more questionable the mission, the 
more half-baked the plan, the more doubtful the 
outcome, the more Nicholas would be wild to pursue 
it. 

"8-Ball has a plan." Nicholas said, and confirmed all 
of LaCroix'half-formed fears with a single statement.

"It's risky," said 8-Ball, "but I believe it's the 
only option we have. I've thought it all out and - "

"Quit stalling," interrupted the GF impatiently. 
"Just say it. We're going to go find Nilo Quanta! I 
say we go now. Why wait?"

The three of them looked toward the strange void 
beyond the splintered louver doors off the kitchen. 
8-Ball squared her furry shoulders. The GF's tail 
twitched with the thrill of potential adventure. 
Nicholas' square jaw set heroically.

Lunatics, LaCroix thought. All three of them.

"Nicholas," he said, and serious alarm lent an extra 
measure of acid to his words. " - how can you 
actually be planning to take this flea-bitten 
feline's mad counsels to heart? You've never listened 
to a word of advice in your life!"

"I don't know how to repair the warp. Nilo Quanta 
does." said Nicholas flatly, sitting up with a 
determined head toss.

"I do NOT have fleas, you ill-mannered . . . VET!" 
said 8-Ball angrily.

The GF jumped off the couch and started toward the 
louver doors.

"C'mon, let's just ditch this guy," snarled the GF. 
"He's the biggest pain in the ass I've ever met. 
Honestly, Nick, I don't know how you've put up with 
him for so long. Let's go. Let's go NOW."

"Why, you nasty little - " LaCroix began, rising from 
his chair.

"It's no use, LaCroix," Nicholas interrupted. "It's 
the only way. You must see that. Do me a favor, will 
you? Call me in sick at work? And see that the cats 
get fed twice a day, while I'm gone, okay?" He got up 
off the couch and turned towards the kitchen.

"Bring the net, Nick," said 8-Ball. "We might need 
it."

LaCroix was obtaining a graphic demonstration of just 
how quickly pan-dimensional chaos could overwhelm the 
standard order of things, once the ball got rolling.

"THIS IS INSANITY!" he shouted, using his iciest, 
most quelling voice. He was gratified to note that 
Nicholas and the cats all paused in their march 
toward the doors and the void beyond momentarily. 
"WHO is this Nilo Quanta? HOW are you going to locate 
him? WHERE does that doorway lead? Have ANY of you 
maniacs considered ANY of the dangers this half-
witted plan of yours will expose you to? And no, I 
will NOT call you in sick, Nicholas, NOR will I feed 
your revolting livestock, NOR will I permit this 
madness to progress another step. Mark me, Nicholas . 
. ." he warned, through fully extended fangs. "NOT. 
ANOTHER. STEP."

Nicholas and the cats regarded LaCroix warily. 
Finally, Nicholas sighed, resigned, and slowly came 
to stand directly in front of his sire.

"All right, now you mark ME, for a moment, will you 
please?" he said, quietly, looking up into LaCroix' 
blazing eyes. "Nilo Quanta is a character 8-Ball read 
about in a science fiction novel. He is THE authority 
on fictional-dimensional physics, and is the only 
individual in all of fiction who has even a hope of 
repairing this rift in the continuum. I don't know 
exactly where he is, but I do know he operates out of 
a place called Celsius Tech. And I also know that 
Celsius Tech is somewhere on the other side of that 
door. And I also know that there ARE dangers the cats 
and I will have to face. But, I don't see where any 
of us has much of a choice. The rift MUST be 
repaired."

The dragon-slaying look, again, thought LaCroix 
dismally. His path is set. The damned quest is 
already under way, and nothing short of the true 
death will ever dissuade him. The pig-headed fool.

"You know this has to be done," said Nicholas 
quietly, and suddenly took one of LaCroix' hands in 
both of his. "Wish me luck? I think I'm going to need 
it."

LaCroix looked back at his finest creation, his 
chosen son, his eternal sparring partner, his 
obsession and his delight, his supreme pain in the 
neck and his unequivocal favorite. He imagined his 
Nicholas disappearing into that infernal doorway to 
nothing with a phfft, and icy fingers of real dread 
clamped round his heart.

He's left me no choice, LaCroix reflected, firming 
his resolve. After all, haven't I been following the 
absurd creature all over the world for centuries? Why 
should tonight be any different?

"You know," he said, with an elegant shrug. "I 
sometimes ask myself what would have happened if you 
and I had never met. It occurs to me that we might 
both have been happier. Very well, Nicholas. Lead on. 
Or is 8-Ball in charge of this particular venture?"

Nicholas rewarded him with a genuinely delighted 
smile, and a grateful squeeze of his hand. Such 
gestures of affection had become all too rare between 
them, over the years. The long list of atrocities 
they'd inflicted on one another in love and hate had 
chilled even Nicholas' inherently affectionate nature 
to a large extent. LaCroix felt absurdly touched that 
in spite of all, Nicholas could still value his 
assistance, and would actually be glad for his 
company on the uncertain adventure ahead.

And truly, it had been long since they'd journeyed 
together. There had been a time when the two of them 
had faced down odds on a regular basis, and been a 
formidable team at that.

Pontificating pointlessly on the radio night after 
night could get dull. Running a dive for bored 
vampires with nothing to do on a Saturday evening 
didn't offer a great deal of challenge, either.

"Oh, god," said the GF. "Don't tell me the VET'S 
coming with us?"

"Shut your muzzle, you little monster!" snapped 
LaCroix. "This trip is apt to be unpleasant enough, 
without your impertinence!"

"He's really not a vet, you know," Nicholas asserted 
mildly, as he reached for the net. "Ramses, you're in 
charge while we're gone. Call Doctor Lambert. The 
number's programmed into the cordless. She'll help 
you out with running the place."

"Sure, Nick," said the Abyssinian tom. "Don't worry 
about a thing. I'll take care of it. Good luck." 

Many of the three hundred or so cats that were 
staying in Nicholas' loft emerged from their various 
hiding places. Those who had progressed far enough in 
their studies to do so wished the two vampires and 
two cats all success in their journey, and 
articulated their hopes for a safe and speedy return. 
Those cats who had not yet learned to verbalize their 
feelings contented themselves with earnest meowing.

Snowball, the shy Persian kitten, ran to 8-Ball and 
seated himself on 8's left forepaw.

"Listen, Miss 8," said Snowball proudly. "'A smolter 
heist is a cleansable ripe of ethereal hands of 
gestation!' That's it, isn't it?" 

"Well, Snowball," 8-Ball answered, both delighted and 
dismayed. "I'm proud of you. But keep up with your 
lessons, now, while I'm away. I want to hear you all 
of you saying it when I get back."

"You ARE coming back, aren't you?" asked Snowball, in 
a tiny, appealing voice.

"Of course we are!" snapped both the Gray Fiend and 
LaCroix in accidental unison. They both broke off and 
glanced irritably at each other, mutually annoyed to 
find themselves in agreement over any point, no 
matter how trivial.

Nick and 8-Ball exchanged a look. Both rolled their 
eyes at the bumpy road this last exchange augured for 
the trip ahead.

"There's no help for it," Nick said to 8. "Believe 
me."

"I see that, Nick," said 8-Ball. "In some ways, 
they're a lot alike. We'll just have to do our best. 
I think we'd better get going."

Nick and 8-Ball moved to the louver doors, and waited 
on the threshold for the rest of the foursome to join 
them.

"Cool," said the GF. "Let's party."  She leapt into 
the air, did a triple somersault in layout position, 
and landed, poised, on the very edge of the yawning 
void.

"Damn you, Nicholas," said LaCroix, and joined them 
at the edge.

"I'm glad you're coming," Nicholas confided to him, 
with a particularly irresistible smile. "I'm scared 
out of my mind."

"So am I," LaCroix admitted, with a cool smile of his 
own. "Glad I'm coming, that is."

"Well . . ." said 8-Ball. "Shall we? On a count of 
three?"

"Screw that!" said the Gray Fiend, showing her fangs 
in a berserk feline grin. "Is we men or is we mice? 
We're PREDATORS! We were born to POUNCE!" Her 
hindquarters bunched as she prepared to spring and 
she screamed: "Havoc! WHEEEE-ROOW . . ." and leapt 
into the void.

Her three colleagues were in the air and through the 
doorway almost before the spirited battle-cry had 
left her mouth.

The four of them disappeared with a phfft.

"Sheesh." commented Ramses, dryly. "Talk about a 
dramatic exit. What a bunch of show-offs. Who's gonna 
call that coroner?"

"Nick said YOU were supposed to," said the Siamese, 
pointedly.

"Oh, yeah, right," Ramses countered, sarcastically. 
"'Oh, hi, Dr. Lambert, guess what? Nick just went 
phfft.' Forget it. YOU call her."

"Nick said it was YOUR job, Ramses." the Siamese 
retorted.

"Oh, damn. All right, all right. Where's the 
cordless?"

The hundreds of cats in the loft stared speculatively 
at the mysterious void as Ramses dialed the phone.

In an apartment across town, a pathologist of note 
picked up her phone on the third ring.

"Doctor Lambert? This is Ramses. Are you sitting 
down? I've got some news for you . . . "

The End