"Harry Always Brings the Groceries" by Patricia M. D´Angelo

Billows of dust churned up from the braking wheels as he slammed on the pedal, sending the old delivery van into a slight fish tail. Gravel spit from the tires as they slid to a final halt. An annoying squeal grated the air, as the van door popped open, and the rusty hinge beckoned for a taste of oil. The man brushed back his long, unkempt hair with a deeply tanned hand before hopping down to the water-starved ground. From a worn pocket, he yanked a tattered ball cap emblazoned with, Grandma Green's Grocery, and shoved it down over his ash brown locks. He pulled hard on the bill with a couple good tugs, but couldn't seem to make the hat fit properly.

He stared at the ramshackle kindling that stood as a home. Stepping between an intermittent maze of Chia, Cocklebur, Stinging Nettle, and other desert plants bursting from the sandy soil, he hurried to the front porch. He bound over the broken steps that looked too decrepit to hold even the minimal weight of his thin frame. He pounded with such fervor on the paint peeled wood of the screen door that it rattled back in reverberating claps. He debated reaching through the torn screen and unhooking the latch. What's taking the old bag?, he thought.

He just started hammering with both fists, when the inner door creaked open to a minute crack. Immediately he brought the back of his hand to his nose to block the overpowering stench that accosted his nostrils. The heavy ammonia smell burned his eyes and permeated the air to the point he could taste it. Dim gray-green eyes, squinting between wrinkles, glared out the opening. The multiple chains that draped the slit, tightly locked the door from an outside world.

"Yer not Harry!" she succinctly remarked.

"No, Ma'am, I'm not."

"Harry brings my groceries."

"Look, Ma'am, they asked me to bring yer order."

"Harry, always brings me my groceries," she repeated with conviction in her raspy voice.

"He wasn't available, "He replied flatly, attempting to keep the ring of impatience from creeping into his voice.

"I only like Harry to___"

"Look, Lady, he got himself fired. Now do ya want your stuff or not?" he barked as he lost the last thread of his composure.

Her wrinkled lips pursed even further as she noted with disgust, "Harry never talked rude to me!"

"Well, I ain't Harry!" His thought carried on with, you ol' witch.

"Harry's been bringing my groceries for twenty-two years. He's a good boy. What would they be goin' an' firin' him for?"

Rubbing his forehead, he wondered how any man in his late thirties could be called a boy. "He's caught stealing from the store, Ma'am."

"Now look here, Mister, don't you be goin' and bad mouthin' my Harry. He'd never cheat nobody. That's just silly! He's always brought my groceries, an' I know he's a good---"

"---boy." He finished her sentence for her with the roll of his eyes.

"He even helps feed the cats." As if on cue, a mournful yowl clawed the air.

"Look, Lady, I don't work for the vet. I deliver groceries. Now, I'm gonna ask ya one more time if you want 'em."

"Ya think I would'a ordered 'em, if I didn' want 'em?" Brushing back wisps of thinning gray hair, she cocked her head, intently studying him. "I don' see no groceries."

"They're in the van, Ma'am."

"Well, they ain't doin' me no good there, are they," she stated as though he was unaware of the obvious.

"I didn' want to be luggin' 'em up here, if no one was home."

"Where else would I be?" she remarked, crossing her arms in disgust.

"Out pickin' up yer rocks, ya crazy coot," he spat back, as anger got the best of him.

Many considered her bent and garishly clad form a local landmark along the region's dusty roadsides. Beneath a blazing sun, she often spent hours collecting a meager handful of stone. She would intently study each rock before either dropping it in her pocket or discarding it with a wild toss behind her shoulder. What drove her compulsion, and why only certain rocks caught her fancy, remained a mystery.

At his outburst, her lip turned up in a sneer before she sourly replied, "Don' like work much do ya?"

Rather than respond he glowered at her with cold dark eyes.

"Well, git. Them groceries ain't walkin' themselves up here."

"Crazy ol' witch!" He muttered his words out loud this time, before he hurtled over the steps and crossed back towards the filthy vehicle.

A loud screech greeted the air as he swung the delivery doors wide. He patted the hard bulge in his pocket before picking up the grocery bags. Noticing the pool of blood spreading against the floor of the van, he checked the sacks for any crimson smears that might possibly give him away. Harry lay crumpled in the far corner, bound and gagged, with a huge gash across his forehead. Blood still spilled from the wound, but it had slowed considerably. Without remorse, the thug slammed the back of the van shut and headed up to the house. The door to the home stood wide open, but no one greeted him at the entrance.

This is gonna be easy, he thought to himself.

He barely took a step inside the house before five or six cats gathered underfoot and rubbed against his legs. Nearly tripping, he hollered, "Git, you flea bitten fur balls." He coughed as he spoke, the overwhelming stink gagging him.

Old cans, gunny sacks, buckets, and stacks upon stacks of old magazines and newspapers littered the room. A filthy olive green sofa stripped of cushions hid in the corner. Turned into a huge scratching post, deep scars rent the arm rests and sides of the dilapidated furniture. Against another wall sat a small wooden rocker that looked completely lost among the towering trash. Liked flayed skin, huge sections of yellowing wallpaper draped from the wall, its dull flower print barely visible.

A sneer crossed his face, as he once again snarled, "Git!"

His foot was about to fly when her harsh voice interrupted, "If I were you, I wouldn' kick at 'em. The Cats don' like that." She slammed the door she had just exited and stomped into the room. In her hands she held a small black velvet bag. "Kitchen's on the right. Just put 'em on the table. An' don' you be botherin' my kitties no more, or I'll take a broom to ya myself."

Like a shadow, she followed him into the room. The large cast iron stove, the icebox with its cylinder motor housing perched atop it, and the handle of the water pump positioned beside a large enamel basin gave the feel of an antique shop. A sharp thud resonated against the heavy oak table, as he plunked the bags down between half-eaten bowls of cat food.

"Ther's eggs in ther' fool. I have half a mind not to tip ya," she muttered as she pulled open the strings of her little purse.

The man whipped around, his fingers curled in an expectant grasp. Slowly she shook out a small handful of gold nuggets. Picking a rather large chunk of ore, she placed it in his outstretched hand.

"That ought ta cover my order." She carefully picked through the remaining nuggets, looking for the smallest grain she could find. "You don' deserve it neither," she remarked as she dropped the speck into a waiting hand.

With blurred movement his fingers ripped into her palm, stealing the contents. Before the old woman could protest, she flew backwards into a wall, reeling from the strong backhand that caught her jaw.

He whipped out his pistol and pointed it at her head. "Now, where's the rest?"

"It's about gone."

He cocked the hammer and butted the barrel against her forehead, "Look, biddy, I ain't foolin'. Git me all your gold, or I'm plantin' a hole in your scalp."

A loud yowl shuddered in the air as a cat mewed with an eerie almost human cry. The sleek calico then continued in angered hisses.

"Yer upsettin' my kitties. Ya went and got Bubbzy mad at ya."

Coolly changing his aim, the pistol jumped upwards as a thundering bang split the air. "Ain't mad no more."

Her screams rivaled the gun's report. It took another sharp blow to her face to curtail the hysteria of long, ear-piercing screeches.

"NO... no... noooo! Not my Bubbsy. Ya hurt her!" she whimpered.

"An' I'm gonna hurt you too, Lady, if ya don' start talkin'. Now, where's the gold?"

"I told ya, I'm almost out. They haven't brought me another batch yet!" she whined as she started crawling towards the heap of blood and fur.

"Who hasn'?" he barked, as he yanked her back to her original position.

"The Cats... "

"Ya git hit too hard? What do ya mean, 'cats'?" he growled as his fingers ripped into her hair and yanked her face upwards.

Several deep, sharp hisses startled the robber and froze him to inaction. Two Persian cats stalked across the kitchen cabinets. Another calico and three browns bound into the room. From atop the refrigerator, a bobtailed cat hunched like a vulture watching its prey. Another peeked from beneath a kitchen chair, its tail slowly slicing back and forth across the floor as if it were anticipating its own strike. He gazed slowly about the room; there were cats everywhere. He lost count of the colors and kinds of fur.

"G... G... Git," he stammered, unnerved by the surrounding host.

Like opened floodgates, mews, hisses, and yowls churned in an unending stream of noise. His gun capped off two more rounds, yet the howling din just intensified.

Shut 'em up, Lady. Shut 'em up!"

A weak wavering voice responded, "It's okay, babies. It'll be okay. Shhh, shhhh, it'll be okay."

Surprisingly, their indignation silenced to occasional protracted hisses, though in agitation, they still bound and leapt about the room, a merry-go-round of motion.

Hauling the woman by her hair, he dragged her back to the other room. "What's behind that door you came out of?" he demanded.

"Ain't nothing in there you'd be interested in."

A sharp cuff caught her across the mouth. "I'll decide what I'm interested in." Turning the doorknob, he discovered it had been locked tight. "Holdin' out on me, huh!" An evil grin curled across his face. "Gimme the key, hag, or you're dead!"

Wiping the trickle of blood from her lip, she muttered, "Ya ain't gonna want it. It's just for the Cats."

Once again a cacophony of howling meows and hisses rent the air as the cats scurried over, under, and around legs and furniture.

In a blink two loud reports echoed in the room as two more fell. A beautiful, pure white long-hair and a wiry Siamese crumpled in a splatter of bones, blood, and fur.

"Them Cats, gonna be real mad!" she threatened.

"Gimme the gall darn key!"

She drove her hand deep into the pocket of her bright orange, flower-print shift. Trembling fingers produced a small old key with a golden tassel looped through its heart-shaped end. He peeled it from her grasp and jammed it into the lock.

"Ain't gonna want it."

Ignoring her remark he twisted the key and threw the door open. His eyes drew wide. Slowly, they scanned the wide broad heap and smaller hills that spilled about the room. No furniture, just mound after mound littered almost every available inch of floor space. He burst into the room and grabbed a rock from a pile.

"What the 'heck' is this? Where's the darn gold? He whipped around and rocketed the stone at the old hag. It smacked with a resounded thud and a whimpered cry. He stomped towards his cowering victim, each step swelling in rage.

"Told ya, ya wouldn't like it n-n-none. It's for the C-C-Cats. They like any of the r-r-rocks that are coated in desert varnish." Her voice quivered under fear's suffocating grasp. She fully expected the blow that swept her from her feet.

"Where's the darn gold," he roared in a voice loud enough to rattle windows.

"They haven't brought it y-y-yet." She gulped with a palatable terror she could taste in her mouth.

"Who hasn'?"

Hesitancy crept into her voice, as she knew he would not like the answer. "The... the Cats."

"You think I'm foolin'. I'm dead serious, Lady!" He raised his gun level to her forehead. "Hell of a note, life can turn on ya, jest like that." With cold indifference steeled in his eyes, his thumb pulled back on the hammer and his finger tightened on the trigger.

A wave blasted in the air. Silvery lines undulated in a shimmering haze. 'POOF!' In a blink he was gone.

In his place stood a lithe, four-foot cat, dressed in a metallic red cloak. The hue of creamed honey colored its fur. Extremely long pointed ears that dangled with golden hoops in various sizes, jutted above the shoulder-length gold braids that hung about her face. Woven into each strand, a rainbow of glass beads and bright feathers painted a bold picture. Her paw held a black object no bigger than a pen. A strong light still emanated from the gadget's end. "It has been quite some time."

"Greetin's back at ya, Bast! I was gettin' a bit worried there."

"Our arrival was fortunate, indeed."

"Not soon enough! He hurt some of my babies; he hurt 'em bad." The old woman moaned as she crawled over to mounds of fur, "My little sweeties. Oh, Fluffs... and Sleek, My poor little kitties!"

"Do not worry. He shall be made to pay for his actions."

"He ain't dead? I thought ya killed 'im. He deserves to die. Ya ought ta kill 'im!"

"Our race deems killing... deplorable! However a fitting punishment will be found." She slipped the slim device back into a pocket of her cloak. "Now, time for business, I wish to inspect the shipment. If it is up to our standards I will issue payment."

Striding to a mound, a mix in size from pebbles to boulders, she picked up a rather large specimen. Her claws bit outward and scored the red veneer of desert varnish coating the stone. From another pocket she pulled a vial, and eased the stopper from its place. Tapping her nail, traces of the bacteria that once coated the rock dropped into the clear liquid. Swirling the tube, it took on a florescent glow. "Ahh, it appears to be of high quality. It puts me in a generous mood. Perhaps I will throw in a few extra gold nuggets if you sell me a couple of your kitties."

"I could never do that; they're my family."

"They would be well cared for... a rare gift, befitting kings and queens. All the rich would want them. I'm sure the pets would become quite trendy... very well cared for." She held out a yellow rock the size of a fist, slowly waving it in temptation.

Nah, I just can't part with 'em. I love 'em too much."

"Then settle we must. I can give you two small purses of gold."

"That ain't gonna fly. I need at least three for all the work I done."

"Two and a half is the best I can do."

Before the cat could withdraw her offer, the old woman's hand shot out with a strong grip and a quick shake. "Done deal!"

As quickly as the gold passed between them, both Bast and the piles of rock began to glow with an unnatural translucence. In a wink they faded and disappeared from sight.

The old crone smirked, as she felt the weight in her hands. Simple desert rocks traded for gold. "Foolish critter! Ain't got a brain in her head. Wantin' worthless rock, puhhh!" she sneered.<br><p><br><p><center>*****</center><p><br><p><br><p> Jerry woke with a headache that drummed at his temples like a sledgehammer. Lolling out of his mouth, his tongue felt thick and dry in his throat. As he attempted to draw his hand to his pounding forehead, he discovered himself frozen in mid-air, easily a foot above the metallic, green floor. Snared spread eagle as though some invisible chains held him, he could not move even the smallest of muscles... not even a pinkie finger. Through an already gaping mouth, he attempted a yell from his parched throat. However no sound echoed in the chamber.<p> The honey-haired cat walked into the room, casually flicking a beaded braid behind one of her pointed ears. Stripped of motion, the man's eyes remained passive, incapable of expressing the shock and terror that gripped him.<p> Walking up steps that couldn't be seen, she whirled around to lounge back in an equally less than apparent chair. Caught up in reflection, she tapped her clawed pads against her furry cheeks, "I find a certain similarity between us. Let's just say, we both have slightly disreputable natures. You see, I'm a drug runner. To my species, the bacteria found on those rocks are highly addictive hallucinogens. Oh, there are illegal labs of course, but why go to the expense when I can get it virtually for free? I don't understand your species' fascination for the yellow rock. My planet of Myria is virtually made of it. It can be scooped from the ground by the handfuls. You have a planet covered in rich dark soil while we just have small pockets of farmable land. Why do you value rock that is incapable of producing any vegetation?"<p> Whipping out the pen shaped instrument, she pointed it at her prisoner. A wide beam of green light blasted through the air. His body shook with wild tremors before he thudded to the floor in agony. He attempted to work his jaw, but at first only managed a few, weak squeaks.<p> "It's the basis fer our money," He slowly uttered.<p> "Why? What can it be used for?"<p> "Ya can make perty things from it... jewelry and stuff."<p> "Jewelry can be made from many things. Will it save you from starvation?" With a look of disgust, she sniped, "What foolish creatures. You make it easy to assuage my guilt."<p> He whimpered, pulled his arms to his chest, and massaged his shoulders. As blood returned to his limbs his muscles burned as if being stabbed by millions of hot white needles. "us... what?"<p> "I didn't intend to kill you. Sell you, yes. Kill, no. Black market slave trade is a specialty of mine. However a problem has arisen. I have a DPU, Drug Prohibition Unit hot on my emission wake. Laws from the Glykle Convention demand rescue of life forms to take precedence over criminal enforcements. I'm afraid I'll have to jettison you. Unfortunately, your rescuers probably won't make it in time." A cynical smile broke across her face as she coolly retorted, "Life can turn on you, just like that!" With those words she pointed her gadget, and his eyes drew wide in terror as he watched... her paw slowly depressed the button.<p>