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.”

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