In Which a Lady is Somewhat Introduced And A New Story Begins

“The only rest a lady detective gets is what she takes for herself. Whether ‘tis upon a Sunday when washing should be done or on a Wednesday when one might be fortunate enough to entertain a client, the respite must be seized as it will not be given.

It was on a day such as today, whilst I lounged within my office pondering the great mysteries of life and fashion, that she entered the room. She was tempestuous, a veritable goddess of fury. A wronged woman, she demanded-”

The door slammed open and the young woman who was orating with her feet resting atop the desk immediately sprang into a demure pose. The harridan at the door merely quirked an eyebrow, “Telling yourself stories again missy?”

A dramatic pout flashed across the youthful visage, “Well, it’s not as if I get any other excitement in my life. No one will let me detect so I might as well spin tales.”

The eye roll that greeted this complaint was legendary, young people the world over could only hope to project that much disdain. “You are not a detective, you’re a mere office girl and the sooner you get that through your ninnyhammer skull.” The woman stopped and huffed out a breath of frustration, “You’re just trying to distract me again. Here,” her outthrust hand contained a sealed envelope, “Himself is at the club and this needs to get to him soonest. No dawdling, mind!”

A hand darted out and grabbed the item enthusiastically, “I’ll be there before you know it!” The paper was secreted in an inner jacket pocket as she grabbed her pack and slung it across her back. Girding her bifurcated loins she flung open the french doors and leapt from the balcony. Her pack puttered, instigating a burst of adrenaline through her system before it kicked and and she soared off down the street.

She belatedly slid her goggles down and gave herself a talking to. “Why do you rush off before putting on the hood? You know it gives you a rats nest and then Miss Higgenbottom will tut, dear thing.” She sighed and continued to mutter to herself as she whipped down the avenues before reaching her destination.

The building was not ostentatious, but still managed to convey an air of gravitas and authority. She had often thought that if it were a man the building would have a countenance that spoke of constant constipation. She alighted, pushed her goggles up, and politely knocked on the door.

A decorous doorman all kitted out in a fine array of extravagant gold braid answered. He tsked, “Miss Fidelia, you look a fright. If you must fetch Mister Nathaniel here, could you not take a care?” He sighed at her contumelious mien. “I’ll fetch him. It’ll be just a moment just please, don’t start any calamities.”

Her eyes widened, “Augie, I’m hurt! You know I never start trouble!”

His sigh was aggrieved and loud, “Miss Fidelia, please do not play at innocence. I beg of you do not…” He shook his head, “It’s really no use.” The door shut and he went to fetch Nathaniel Erasmus Baldrick Bracegirdle, Detective at Very Large.

In which the world goes to hell in a handbasket

Bracing himself for more weirdness, Patches followed his erstwhile master. They stepped outside, into the gleaming sunshine of yet another hot midsummer day. The cat was confused, since he remembered it being closer to autumn only a few hours ago. But if settings and places could change and transform, and cats could be multiplied into vampires, what was a little seasonal mash-up compared to all the other incredible things he had recently witnessed?

When he looked around to take in his new surroundings, he already heard the dread Fontanello cry out in disgust: “What in the name of all that is explosive and sharp-edged is that?”

A brief pause, a grinning vampire baring his fangs, glinting like crazy in the bright sunlight. Wickles and Patches were all but blinded by the kaleidoscope of rays the sparkling version of him was sending off in all directions.

Then Fontanello let out a mean, megalomaniacal laugh. “Is this some ploy to take back fiction? Where are you, ridiculous nephew of mine? Where are you hiding? I can’t see with this disco ball boy throwing around his flashing lights! Oh, wait, I’ll get rid of that stupid abomination! How could you send in something so disgustingly pretty?”

He was obviously angry, maybe even livid.

The vampire sauntered through the underbrush, oblivious to insults and threats, enjoying the lovely patterns his sparkle dappled across the trees. Wickles and Patches watched with bated breath.

Fontanello was heard mumbling words to himself, unintelligible from where they had positioned themselves. Was he swearing or … oh no, was that an incantation? Was he calling his army of gray aliens or worse, faceless shooters? Patches glanced up at Wickles, trying to gauge the man’s reaction. Wickles seemed unfazed.

And then he felt the vibration under his paws, even before he could hear the stomping and marching of a thousand non-human feet. Uh-oh, this didn’t bode well. But Wickles still looked serene. Patches strained his eyes, but it was all light and shadow and the dust raised by the approaching army. He caught a glimpse of the dread Fontanello, who’d taken off his spectacles and was waving them around in his hand, gesticulation for the unseen attackers to hurry up.

And then it happened.

Maybe it was only one glint, reaching the ground at an unfortunate angle, hitting the spectacles in Fontanello’s hand, though that would have been an incredible coincidence. Patches no longer believed in coincidence. But whatever the reason, the grass under Fontanello’s feet caught fire, and because is was a bright midsummer day, and the grass was dry and the earth parched, a conflagration sprang up, quicker than you could say “meow”. Blazing, scorching walls of fire, fanned by a sudden wind, another too- obvious coincidence.

“Get back inside!” Wickles screamed against the crackling noise of the raging fire, and Patches obeyed immediately. They turned and disappeared through the door, Wickles closing it behind them quickly, but unhurriedly.

“Oops,” he said.

Patches squinted his eyes and waited for more.

“My original plan seemed better, but you gotta take what you can get. We’ll let it all burn down and simply erect a new world of fiction.”

In Which We Discover New Urges

“Yes, good, good!” beamed Mr. Wickles, enjoying the classic moment of shock after the transformation takes place. It only gets better every time, he thought to himself with a chuckle, quite pleased with himself. “Stare with a touch more brooding and dramatic mystery; it’ll help you get into character.”

Both versions of Patches scoffed in unison and cast their eyes to the ground indignantly, serving only to further please an already gleeful creator. “See? You were born to fit this role.”

Ignoring Mr. Wickles’ comment, Patches tried turned his mind to business. His mind was certainly in an unbearably irritable malaise; visions of home and a warm snifter of milk pleased him more with every passing moment. In his burgling years, his stamina was indeed trained to bear long work hours such as these, yet even so, he could feel his feline form begin to long desperately for a nap. Looking upon the newly-created vampire creature, he wondered what thoughts might have been passing through the sparkly teen’s mind. Were they precisely comparable, or were they being compromised by this— this creature? Fascinated by the boy’s sudden interest in the room around him, Patches watched uneasily after his darting gaze.

Ignoring Mr. Wickles’ comment, the vampire turned his mind to more important matters: where on earth might there be some blood around this place? Surely it couldn’t be far, being in a laboratory and all, he considered with impatience. Trying to remain calm, Patches tried in vain to persuade himself that it was all in his head. Starving now, his eyes became quite suddenly wild and darted here and there. Pulsing and twitching with enormous energy, the boy easily found in himself an urge to hunt as his heightened sense of smell had a mind of its own. Never had he felt so alive, so primal.

Sighing, Mr. Wickles tossed a bag filled with a red liquid to the vampire, the contents of which were suckled with haste and without even a touch of ceremony— much to the horror of Patches, who watched on with disgusted indignation. “There you are then, deary! You must keep your strength up for what is shortly to follow.”

As Mr. Wickles ushered the vampire from the laboratory, eager to launch the plan at last, Patches looked on at the spectacle, unsure of how to proceed. Was he even interested in watching this nonsense as it played out? Knowing this without even so much as turning, Mr. Wickles smirked at the poor feline’s predicament. “Come now, burglar,” he called to him, adding a hint of foreboding as he left the room. “You will not wish to miss this.”

In Which Patches Is Finally Transformed

“This way, Patches; there’s a good fellow! Do try to keep up.” Mr. Wickles continued to bleat his cheerful encouraging nonsense as he led Patches to the end of existence as he knew it. Patches was solemn but brave about the whole situation; if one had to become such a … creature … as it seemed he would become, it softens the blow a bit to do so in service of a beauty. Lady Violet! Patches would gladly go to the grave for her – in fact, under the circumstances, he might have preferred death. The pair arrived in a dingy laboratory, surrounded by many jars with various wet-specimen taxidermy in. Patches was taken a little aback. “Isn’t this…?”

“Yes. We lifted the scene directly from Mary Shelley. It’s not that widely read with all the adaptations out there, so it should be fairly private, and if I need a spare set of hands, Victor’s not bad at surgery.”

“You know precisely how to set a gentleman at ease, Wickles. Very well – get on with it.” Weary from being brave and the barrage of exposition that had been happening over the last hour or so, Patches just wanted his ill-starred transformation to be over already. Wickles gestured to a simple cardboard box, and in his cat-shape, Patches slipped inside.

“Logic puzzles and thought experiments aren’t strictly literary, of course, but they crop up enough in fiction that we can borrow the constructs when necessary, Patches. Since Vampires, of course, are dead, we need you dead, too. Now, the whole Shrödinger situation – or its popular retellings – will mean that you’re alive and dead at once. After that, it’s just a matter of narrative surgery.” Wickles shut the lid, and strode over to an old computer console. The orange text blinked against the background, waiting for a prompt. He sat, and began typing wildly.

“That seems like a ridiculously high amount to charge for such a simple task!” the fat man protested. “I’m sure that it could be done for quite a bit less, perhaps by someone else!”
Patches growled at his client, baring one fang to make his point, “The price was agreed about beforehand, you wouldn’t be trying to amend the contract at such a late date, would you?” His claws came out and dug into the oak of his desk, His galloping abs tore through his flimsy formal shirt, indicating how strong and beautiful he was. “I would hate to think you were trying to cheat me while besmirching my character.” Splinters appeared on the desktop as  his claws worked and fur rose along his ruff, the light sparkled on his glittery muscled skin. Also he slammed his fist powerfully enough for there to be splinters, I guess.“I would hate to have to deal with such…slander.”
The man nervously loosened his collar, “I-I’m sure there will be nothing to worry about. Your reputation is unimpeachable.” He wiped away a drop of sweat from his brow as the fang disappeared back behind the bewhiskered lip and the claws drew back  chiseled boyish lips of the vampire stud.

“Excellent!” Mr. Wickles was pleased with his Meyersesque edit of Patches’ initial description. “I mean, the narrative might reject the graft, but it should hold long enough to do the job.” Heading back over to spring Patches from his temporary prison, he saw that there were now two boxes, neatly stacked on top of one another. Wickles opened them both, and stepped back, lest either version of Patches wind up disemboweling him.

He needn’t have worried. Both Patches stood, staring at one another – the somewhat portly temporally-ambiguous gentleman-burglar who could turn into a cat at will, and the Robert Pattinson look-alike.