Bite Me

retriever’s coat. With each stroke one of the cats fellaway, beheaded or cut in half, both halves squirming on the pavement.
    There was no spinning, no wind-up or flourish to the swordsman’s movements, just grim efficiency, like a chef chopping vegetables. As his targets moved, he pivoted and stepped just enough to deliver the cut, then snapped the blade back and sent it to its next destination.
    The weight and fury removed from his back, Lazarus looked around and whimpered, which translated to: “Whaaa—?”
    The swordsman was relentless, step, cut, step, cut. Two cats came at him from under a Volvo and he quickly retreated and swung the sword in a quick, low arc that approximated a golf stroke and sent their heads back over the car to bounce off a metal garage door.
    “Behind!” the Emperor warned.
    But it was too late. The low attack had thrown the swordsman off—a heavy-bodied Siamese cat launched itself from the roof of a van across the street and landed on the little man’s back. The long sword was useless at such close range. The swordsman arched in pain, even as the Siamese clawed its way up his back. He spun, then threw his feet out before him and fell hard on his back, but the Siamese took the impact and dug its fangs into the swordsman’s shoulder. A half-dozen vampire cats came scurrying out from under cars toward the struggling swordsman.
    Lazarus, his fur matted with blood, caught one of the cats by the haunch and bit to the bone. The cat screamedand squirmed in the retriever’s jaws, trying to claw his eyes. The others fell on the swordsman with fang and claw.
    The Emperor threw his shoulder against the Plexiglas door of the police cart, but there was no room to move, to gain momentum, and while the entire cart rocked and went up on two wheels under his weight, the door latch would not give. He watched in horror as the swordsman writhed under his attackers.
    The Emperor heard a steel fire door hitting brick and light spilled across the sidewalk and into the street. Out of the doorway ran a thin, impossibly pale girl with lavender pigtails wearing pink motocross boots, pink fishnet stockings, a green plastic skirt, wraparound sunglasses, and a black leather jacket that looked studded with glass. Before he could warn her, the girl ran into the street and shouted, “You motherfucking kitties need to step the fuck off!”
    The vampire cats attacking the swordsman looked up and hissed, which translated from vampire cat, meant: “Whaaa—?”
    She ran right at the swordsman, waving her arms as if shooing birds or trying to dry some particularly stubborn nail polish and screaming like a madwoman. The cats turned their attention to her, and were crouching, readying to leap, when her jacket lit up like the sun. There was a collective screech of agony from the vampire cats as all around the street, cats and cat parts smoked, then ignited. Burning cats made for the alley across the street or tried to hide under cars, but the thin girl ran after them, dartinghere and there, until each ignited, then burned and reduced itself first to a bubbling puddle of fur and goo, and finally, a pile of fine ash.
    In less than a minute, the street was quiet again. The lights on the girl’s jacket went dark. The swordsman climbed to his feet and fitted his orange porkpie hat back on his head. He was bleeding from spots on his back and arms, and there was blood on his plaid pants and orange socks, but whether it was his or the cats’ was impossible to tell. He stood before the thin girl and bowed deeply.
    “Domo arigato,” he said, keeping his eyes at her feet.
    “Dozo, ” said the girl. “Your kitty-slaying skills are, if I may say so, the shit.”
    The swordsman bowed again, short and shallow, then turned and trotted across the street, down the alley, and out of sight.
    Lazarus was digging at the Plexiglas door of the police cart with the pads of his paws, as if he might polish his way through to release his master. Abby scratched his nose, nearly the only part of him not covered in blood, and opened the door.
    “Hey,” she said.
    “Hey,” said the Emperor.
    He stepped out of the cart and looked around. The street was painted with blood for half a block, punctuated by piles of ash and the occasional charred flea collar. Parked cars were sprayed in red mist, even the security lights above several fire doors were speckled with gore. Acrid smokefrom burning cats hung low in the air, and on the sidewalk