AMPHIB/MAMM/DISTRUST inc.
Birds.
The birds sit.
The birds sing.
They fly from tree to tree. Hop from branch to branch. They drink. They bathe.
Claude watches.
Claude watches from his spot on the arm of the sofa. Proud Claude, Gigantic Claude. Claude King of Cats, of all he surveys. Master. Ruler. God.
Claude scowls as he watches.
The birds talk to each other.
They say things like; “Why does he watch?” “Why does he not join us on the outside?” “All this could be his, he too could play. Why does he watch, why does he stare so?”
They would not like the answer.
Claude yawns, a wide toothless yawn. Claude is thirteen years old, as wide and as tall as the microwave that heats his Smart Price Chicken Kormas and he is vengeful.
“Maaarp” says Claude.
Claude does not talk like others anymore. Of course, we humans wouldn’t understand him even if he did, but now even his fellow felines have given up any hope of meaningful conversation with him.
Claude coughs up a hairball. He turns his sickly yellow eyes to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Five to four. Claude smiles. ‘Food’ thinks Claude, ‘Food forthcoming, food presently, food in more than due course‘. The reassuring sound of a five-door saloon car with exhaust problems reaches his crooked ears. ‘House staff’ thinks Claude.
They have been home for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and still Claude goes without food. They did not notice his sacrifice. The Woman, the Man and Boy all. Not one thanked him for his greeting. Seldom did Claude greet them from their travels. ‘Not even a titbit’ damns Claude. Instead They move away from the kitchen, away from their duties and they go…there. He hears their footsteps above him, knocks and bangs and clicks and slams. He looks forlornly at the mountain of white plastic bags piled on the floor in front of him. Each loaded with treat upon treat, goodie upon goodie, morsel upon morsel. His weathered, slathering tongue hangs from his mouth.
“Maaaaaaaaarp!” Wails Claude.
Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
The Boy holds him. Holds him inexpertly. Claude’s lower half hangs desperately under the boys crossed forearms. His lower girth pushes up under his chin practically suffocating him. The boys legs shake, almost buckling under the strain. Claude’s eyes are wide, his eyes questioning.
He had been napping when the abduction had taken place. He looked for the Man and Woman, they had, on occasion, proved to be useful when in a tight spot.
“Look Claude” said the Boy, “Friends, new friends!”
Claude adjusted his eyes to the lights and squinted into the dimly lit box in before him. Two Bullfrogs sat inside. Basking in the warmth of a heat lamp. Basking at Claude’s expense. They had slowed his service, They had broken his slumber. ‘Reparations’ thought Claude, ‘Reparations.’
Night had come and gone.
Morning was with Claude.
Claude was with the Bullfrogs.
First the Man had left. Then the Woman and Boy. Claude was alone, alone with the Bullfrogs.
Claude climbed up…there. Where heroes fall and are broken, where doors are opened into faces. Where Kings are removed from their thrones and subjects seated in their place. Claude climbed and he snuck and now he watches. He watches from the shadows. The Bullfrogs have noticed him. They have tried to make contact, but Claude does not respond.
Not. A. Peep.
The Bullfrogs are worried. Their hospitable nature tells them to welcome the stranger but their instincts tell them to get as far away as possible. They are nervous and worried. They have not, as yet, worked out exactly what Claude is. To them he resembles a large, punctured, football. Some badly arranged pillows perhaps. They were worried, have bypassed nervous and are now scared.
Then he is gone.
The tank shakes for us, the World shakes for the Bullfrogs. The turn towards the source of the noise and there, filling the side as though he were on an IMAX screen. Claude. Wrath. The bullfrogs do not move. They are frozen. The smaller of the two opens his mouth but his companion shuts it for him.
“Maaaaaaarrrrppppppppp!” roars Claude.
The tank vibrates under the force of bellowing Claude. His eyes tightly squeezed shut, his jowls a-flapping, thick feline spit flecking the glass.
The Bullfrogs do not move.
Claude opens his eyes. He glares at the two trembling shapes before him and smiles. A Hangman’s smile. The Bullfrogs watch as Claude moves, mollusc-like over towards the heat lamp.
Claude looks back at them.
They look at Claude.
Claude looks at the temperature dial on the lamp.
They look at the temperature dial on the lamp.
Claude turns the dial.
HEAT. Unbearable heat.
“Wasser!” Scream the Bullfrogs. “Wasser, Master, Wasser!”.
Claude smiles. He smiles and turns the dial back again. The Bullfrogs sob, their backs burnt, the water in the tank uncomfortably warm irritating their sore skin.
“Why?!” The smaller frog implores.
‘Reparations’ thinks Claude ‘Reparations.’
Time passes quickly now for Claude. They do not understand. They do not understand why the Bullfrogs behaviour has become so erratic. Why their skin is so dry and sore. Why they hide from sight under the tank decorations. The Boy is most upset.
This pleases Claude.
The Bullfrogs are taken to specialists. Specialists furrow their brows. Do tests. Make suggestions. Suggestions are followed, changes made. Still sores, still dry skin, still the behaviour.
‘They are stupid’ thinks Claude.
For a time Claude is amused but Claude has become weary, jaded. He breathes heavily from his spot on the sofa. Thick rain covers the earth outside, the sound of uncooked rice poured into a saucepan. All God’s creatures hide from the rain. Sheltered, huddled, waiting. Trapped. Claude allows himself a smile.
The curtains in the room are drawn now. The old lamp has gone, many have come and gone in its wake. None have presented a challenge to Claude. The Bullfrogs seldom move from their spot under the thick stick. The thick stick protects them from his sight but not from his reach. The smaller frog lies on his back.
“How much longer,?” he sighs.
“This is our lot now.” replies a broken spirit.
“Maaaaaaaaarrrpppp!” roars Claude.
The tank shakes for us. The world shakes for the Bullfrogs.
They huddles together under the thick stick. Their great eyes dart in every direction. Cold webbed hands moving across each others bodies. A feeble attempt at protection from the impending heat.
“No more.” Their mantra begins. “No more.”
HEAT. Unbearable, unforgiving heat.
Claude body vibrates with soundless laughter. He is ready to complete his work. He pushes his wide head into the base of the lamp, nudging it closer and closer to the tank.
“Wasser master, Wasser!” Scream the Bullfrogs. Their tongues whipping across each others backs, coating each other in lukewarm spittle.
Claude pushes the lamp. He pushes the lamp until it tilts and smacks against the side, cracking the lid and pouring more light inside. He turns his head upright, the sight of the perishing pair causes more laughter, raucous, vicious, spiteful laughter. He raises himself up on his hind-legs. His front paws waving out before him in jubilation.
But Claude has misjudged his sense of balance.
Claude falls.
He falls back.
Back off the desk and onto the ground.
He lies like a Galapagos Turtle. His paws scrape and scratch at the air. His eyes wide as plates, the pupils circling like a ball in a roulette table. His flab slopes back on itself. Towards his neck. Suffocating him.
The Bullfrogs are hopping. They seen the crack in the lid. They jump for their lives. Great leaps, banging into the lid. The lid is almost…the lid is off.
FREEDOM.
Claude, Claude is becoming dizzy. He has overreached himself. He damns the desk, he damns it’s impractical distance from the floor and insufficient size. He takes in shallow breaths. His stomach hurts. A rhythmic tattoo plays across his mass like an irregular heartbeat. He turns his head to the side. In the reflection of the waste bin he sees to green shapes bobbing up and down on a large black and white ball.
The Bullfrogs dance. They dance atop Claude.
“Vengeance,” they chant, “Vengeance”.
Claude wakes in a white place. He has seen this place before. Not in dreams. Nothing so romantic. This is a place of corrective surgeries, of appetite suppressants and emasculation. His eyes hurt, he is tired and confused. They. are there. The Man, the Woman and Boy.
“Claude?” The Woman says.
“He’s awake, Josh, he’s awake!” The Man is excited.
Claude looks at the Boy, the Boy - the traitor. The traitor strokes his stomach. Claude purrs. An uneasy purr. He is stills sore from before.
“They’re gone now Claude, both of them.” he says.
They all look at him with their treacherous eyes. Their guilt-ridden eyes. They seek redemption. The woman holds a Twix biscuit aloft, removes it from its wrapper and waves it in front of his mouth.
“Go on Claude, its your favourite - see?”
Claude leans his head away from it and makes a disagreeable sound from deep within his throat. They all laugh.
“Give it here!” says the Man. He takes the biscuit, separates the caramel from the base and holds it in front of Claude’s mouth.
Claude places his tongue out as though to receive a Communion wafer.
Claude is a forgiving God.
