Does Curiosity Kill a Cat?

It was quite clear that the crime museum was constructed by the bare paws of its curators. That meant the tape of the information posters was peeling off, the florescent lights were scattered in unnatural places, and the odorous pitch black paint consistently pinched everyone’s noses. However, all could be dismissed, on the basis that it was the type of paw crafted material that showed the ardency to get one’s cogs turning.

Franko, a moggy cat, certainly appreciated his cogs being turned. As he traversed through the labyrinthine layout, his mind gorged on the various artifacts that seeped through his imagination: of a mannequin, modeled to represent the simple butcher knife, exclusively used between a queen’s toes; of wondering of what the mental state was of a troubled tom was like based on his hair-raising gallery; even of something seemingly monotonous like cigarette statues, created by prisoners, made Franko’s innards jittery. All the way he fidgeted with the one button on his suit that his obesity allowed him to do up. Almosr othing else could’ve disturb him. He continued, now noticing some realistic cigar smoke passing by him. Smoke?

Mechanically, Franko turned his head to the direction of it, revealing that it was only from the cigar of his friend Sekel, a Shorthair cat. The presence of the his face was a potent enough hint to get Sekel to hide the object, or else be kicked out – more than a “No Smoking” sign apparently. No apologies were needed between the two. They continued minding their own business reading or looking at the displays. When the moggy finished a section and was about to move on though, the Shorthair took him back by tapping him on the shoulder. He wanted to read something to him that made his ears perk upwards:

‘“This was the feeble pencil of an office worker named Hammigan Hammet, used in a failed attempt to murder his boss; according to Hammet he was extremely tyrannical.”’ recited Sekel. He placed his arm over the corresponding glass display box, tapping his fingers on it, ‘There’s plenty of heavy fire extinguishers in offices. If I were him, I’d rather get the job done by smashing the tyrant into pieces with one, even if I ended up still being arrested.’

Every word of that widened the eyes of Franko. His body started to tighten unconsciously. Neurons activated like a hammer to the knee, coaxing him to do anything to inform the Shorthair to shut his mouth. Instead, he attempted to repose. Humour like this wasn’t out of the ordinary for his friend. It was frivolous to start an episode over something like this. He decided to end the conversation by grunting in agreement.

Tensions continued to lower, as the toms did not make any further attempt to interrupt each other. Albeit, Franko still felt the need to do occasional side glances in Sekel’s direction; to his assurance, he only saw the Shorthair occupied with his hands firmly behind his back, slightly twisting his torso side to side. He should’ve been ogling at him instead, because the moggy could’ve choked on his own spit when his friend threw his arm around him.

‘There’s a section here called “Ersatz Executions”,’ the Shorthair lavishly introduced, pointing towards it ‘and there’s one myth about a convicted murderer sentenced to a death penalty of hanging. Apparently, since he was a previous abuser of steroids, his neck was muscular enough that they had difficulty hanging him. And no law going against authorities unreasonably murdering convicts existed, so they resorted to hacking him to death with axes.’ Sekel proceed to make a gesture, inexplicable at first, using one shaking fist pulling away from his neck ‘Franky, how hard do you think it would be for him to actually use those muscles he never worked for to tear that noose apart? Maybe then, he could tear up his executors as well?’

Franko felt his claws unsheathing. He clenched his fists.

‘At least, that is what I’d do.’ continued Sekel, almost singing.

With the tips of his claws digging into his friend’s bloated stomach, the moggy lightly shoved Sekel aside. The Shorthair was shaken, his eyebrows bended upwards with worry and he started to stutter something. Before he could say anything though, he realised Franko had already stormed off.

Senselessly wandering around, Franko suddenly bumped into a rope fence obstructing a smaller room. This snapped him out of his daze, but he shrugged it off and gently pulled it aside, just enough for him to squeeze past it. Naturally, he decided, it would be for the best to take his mind off the situation by studying this place, slowly turning around to capture the bare details: some books and cigarette boxes were stuck onto a table, and a stripped bunk bed was behind him. Finally, he found a few information posters placed on a wall above his height, informing him that this was supposed to be a replica of what the average prison cell looked like, minus the bars, toilet and basin. As he kept on reading, he found that he often had to shuffle around, in order to shift the reflection of the lighting away from the poster. Still, there was one stubborn gleam in the corner that would not move. The moggy scanned the room for the source of light.

Not even attempting to hide behind the table leg it was near was a miniature dagger. Frantically, Franko grabbed the object and placed it on the table, and kept his paw firmly over it. His breathing gained momentum. He figured that perhaps it was misplaced because of an inept employee, and that he could always report this. The moggy started to walk over to the exit. It was only then that he was hit by just how many other cats surrounded the area. Witnesses, that he was sure could mistake him for having malicious intent carrying it. Thus, he decided to continue pondering the makeshift cell to wait them out.

As soon as he thought that things were looking brighter, it slipped away. Something was already brushing against the back of Franko. Hairs shot up. Claws out. He strangled what muscles he had to nimbly turn around and jostle the perpetrator up against the wall. The gates of his mouth abruptly swung open to let whatever words tumble out:

‘I’M NOT DOING THIS SHIT TODAY!’ he barked. Momentarily, he found himself wanting to pull away. Was such force needed for a mistake? That did not matter. That was, until Franko’s raving was interrupted with a yelp.

Stepping backwards, he saw that it was Sekel. The Shorthair cowered, his head virtually caving into his body. His paw feebly covered a wound on his stomach, the blood gushing out through his fingers and his mouth. Then there was the smooth, metallic dagger Franko grasped in his paw. The dagger that he had been mindlessly holding this entire time, and had come into contact with his victim where he believed only his paw was.

A ringing sound filled Franko’s ears, and his vision was rendered bleary. The temptation to shut his eyes, sit and make a cocoon of this body and wait for some deserved repercussion hung over him like a hypnotists pendant. He took that as if it were a piece of candy instead.

Time felt interminable before Franko heard muffled steps approaching the makeshift cell. Instantaneously he was brought back to reality.

‘Hello folks,’ the moggy remained in his position, but could figure out that it was a curator ‘the museum will be closing in about 15 minutes. Start heading for that exit when you’re done please.’ Franko’s rapid breathing returned, even though no one had apparently noticed him, yet. He wished everything could’ve dissapeared. That obviously wasn’t going to happen, especially when he remembered what he did to Sekel.

Rearing his head downwards, the moggy saw that the Shorthair was now laying near limp on the floor, at least still breathing. He started to scrape his nails using his teeth; how could’ve he let another cat almost be left to rot? Instead of creating what could’ve been jarfuls of nails, he decided that it was time to stop this preamble and enact a way of getting some medical help. Without looking as if the accident was purposeful.

Floundering in the process, Franko tried to clasp the body of Sekel upright. Then, he wiped the blood off where it had painted him; for extra measure, the moggy slapped one over the wound, another around the Shorthair’s mouth. Loosely, he placed his head on the Shorthair’s shoulder, acting as a lookout for any objects or cats that could obstruct him. As he pushed the rope fence aside, he noticed a blitz white sign in bold lettering stating: “This area has been temporarily closed off for renovation”. There was no time to even be stupefied or thankful for this blunder, as a clear path was waiting for him. Slowly Franko began to puppet his victim away.

After what appeared to be a cakewalk, the light of the exit standing above a staircase graced the toms. By now, Franko’s eye bags could’ve been sagging towards the floor, but this sight kicked his lethargy out one more time to motivate him. It might’ve been , all went awry when the weight of his friend tipped to one side along with the moggy, bumping into the ticket desk, with a receptionist behind it. Now was the perfect time to find out that Sekel had also gone into an unconscious state.

‘S-sir, I am very sorry.’ sputtered Franko, simultaneously struggling to lift Sekel off the floor.

‘It’s alright. You two loves have a nice day now.’ the receptionist replied.

There couldn’t have been a possibility that the receptionist would ignore this abnormality any time soon. Grabbing Sekel wherever Franko could get him, he started to scuttle up the stairs. With the light growing into his eyes, the exit beckoned that there was freedom ahead of him. The body dragging behind him did not. Soon enough, the weight of the Shorthair aided in Franko tripping on the stairs, sending both tumbling right down.

* * *

‘Mr Norvell, you sound like a gleeful adolescent at heart playing with knives like that. So how exactly did you come to be that way?’

Franko simply frowned at the stranger sitting besides him on the bench. Even as he let the fresh breeze of the park divert his disposition, he wished he could order his vocal chords to never imply anything again about his crime record. There was nothing more he could’ve explained to satiate the interest of this cat. It wasn’t that he was completely unwilling to explain it. It was just that he had enough of those repetitive questions tearing through his respect; enough of having to feel his mind writhe every time he had to start over, after the cat uttered a ‘pardon’; his ears especially folded tight at the mistake that his former friend was in fact a boyfriend, just because he had remembered that the employee referred to them as ‘loves’. Corrections or repetitions bounced off the recipients already elastic head.

It came to his attention that the tom, staring with piercing blue eyes, was still awaiting an answer. He professed something that he hoped could end this:

‘Look, all you need to know is that my ex-boyfriend- ex-friend made some stupid jokes. I got unrightfully mad. I stabbed him by accident. He survived. The court gave me 15 years in prison for grievous injury. I got released 3 years ago. I don’t have time for your annoyances. Goodbye sir!’ With that finished, Franko got up and started to amble away. Yet, the moggy was dragged back in by his tie, right into the strangers face. Sickly, humid breath filled the air, and his vision was clouded by pompous pimples that didn’t care where they formed.

‘You know when you hurt your boyfriend bad? Did he feel, say, anything erotic from it?’ he soullessly droned.

The moggy became speechless as he jarred the strangers paw out of his tie, and this time, speedily jogged away. Still he heard the inquisitive cries of the burden behind him, but he wasn’t going to let some curiosity, necessary or not, kill him again.