The Farting Biting Cat
eep in the hold of the airliner, the Farting Biting Cat bit angrily into the slim bars of its cage. Then, it
farted. Growls of protest sounded from the other pets in the vicinity. These multiplied and
crescendoed to shrieks of outrage and terror as the noxious gas filled the entire chamber and hung like
swamp moss in the dank air.
Nonplussed, the Farting Biting Cat resumed its methodical shredding of the thick newspaper lining its cage. Sharp claws ejected from fat, furry paws, slitting layers of typeprint and tearing them noisily backwards. Every now and then, the Farting Biting Cat scooped up a clutch of flimsy tapers. Eyeing them with hatred, it opened its horrible mouth and bit down viciously, gnashing with piebald gums and worn teeth - teeth worn from biting. Then closing its eyes in a brief ecstasy of vengeance, the Farting Biting Cat farted.
By the time the ground crew came for the cargo, the hold of the aircraft reeked of methane and was littered with moist, masticated fragments of paper. When a gloved finger protruded into the cage of the Farting Biting Cat, it drove its good fang through the stout canvas. The sudden savagery of the attack tensed all of the Farting Biting Cat's muscles, causing it involuntarily to emit a loud fart. The middle- aged baggage handler recoiled in pain and surprise, leaving behind the tip of his glove and a morsel of his flesh. This the Farting Biting Cat devoured with relish, and with a sturdy, contented, fart.
Roger eyed Stephanie with anxiety as she released the Farting Biting Cat into their new home. She cooed and murmured to her pet, as it wandered cautiously from its cage. Slowly, silently, it turned and flashed its red eyes at Roger. Then with a force astonishing for something so revoltingly obese and orange, it sprang forward and fastened itself to Roger's chest. Spread-eagled on his heavy jumper, the Farting Biting Cat sought his collar bone and bit ferociously, its corrupt breath hissing hotly onto his skin. Roger leapt back and collided with the front door, his head smashing through a glass panel. His frantic thumbs dug into the folds of fat under the Farting Biting Cat's forelegs. Using all his strength, he flung the animal to the ground and kicked it solidly. The Farting Biting Cat slid across the broad, polished floorboards, spinning and farting profusely with rage.
Stephanie shot Roger a foul look and stalked down the corridor, angrily muttering words of recrimination. Roger slumped to the floor, bloody and unconscious.
When Roger awoke, he saw that Stephanie had already left for work. A note pinned to his sleeve informed him of his chores for the day. Roger saw with dread that Chore One was to feed the Farting Biting Cat. A cloth bag at his feet held the recipe and the ingredients for the Farting Biting Cat's breakfast.
Swearing into the warm draught from the stove, Roger stirred the components into a vile goulash. Eggs, baked beans, cheese and sauerkraut vied for supremacy amid a bubbling sea of lard. Roger's stomach recoiled at the stench.
From the other end of the house, Roger heard a low fart, followed by a disturbing crunching sound. The Farting Biting Cat was awake. Roger glared through the kitchen door toward the sound, absently stabbing his wooden spoon into the goop. It plopped sullenly and tried to slither up the sides of the battered fondue pot. With a final stir, Roger turned off the gas and carried the pot to the Farting Biting Cat's terra cotta feeding bowl. Hoping to deposit the meal before its owner arrived, Roger scooped recalcitrant gobs of the heinous matter and flung them earthward. Before he had finished, however, the Farting Biting Cat entered the lounge room, and farted.
Refusing to be intimidated, Roger steeled himself to his task. Eyeing his nemesis warily, he filled the feeding bowl to overflowing, then stepped back.
The Farting Biting Cat advanced slowly, regarding Roger maliciously through hooded slits. Roger retreated into the kitchen and took a slim carving knife from a hook on the wall. He clutched its bone handle to his breast and waited.
The Farting Biting Cat reached its feeding bowl, glanced disdainfully into it, then returned its gaze to Roger. Lowering its heavy, bewhiskered head it began to eat, finding the food by smell and touch. For seven minutes the Farting Biting Cat fed itself, never once taking its eyes off Roger. Every time its drool-drenched jaws closed upon a chunk of unmelted cheese, The Farting Biting cat emitted a long, low growl and a hideous, breathy fart. Increasingly nauseous and dizzy, Roger began to sway slightly in the doorway.
After an eternity, the Farting Biting Cat straightened up. It had expanded to twice its former size. Unable to stretch, it farted instead, then bit languidly at a flea. Released from the animal's stare, Roger exhaled with relief. Stephanie had said that her pet always slept after dining. He began to think about coffee and a shower. He felt jet-lagged. He let his eyelids close in a long blink. When he reopened them, the Farting Biting Cat had disappeared. Roger shook his head and refocussed. The lounge room was tiny, the coffee table glass-topped. There were no hiding places for something as large and smelly as a catcher of grass from a poo-ridden nature strip. He assumed the Farting Biting Cat had returned to the spare room for a doze. He stepped out of the kitchen.
The Farting Biting Cat launched itself from the bookcase, landing heavily on Roger's neck and knocking him over. He fell onto the coffee table, then through it. Enraged, Roger heaved and scrambled from the glass-sharded confines and lurched back into the kitchen. Farting continuously, the Farting Biting Cat rode shotgun, seeking Roger's eyes and biting murderously into his scalp.
In the ensuing struggle, Roger dropped his knife. Sensing victory, The Farting Biting Cat tightened its hold and slashed open his forehead. Blinded by his own blood, Roger's desperate fingers hurriedly sought a new weapon. Glass and crockery crashed to the floor. At last his hand closed upon something smooth, which dovetailed into his palm with familiarity. It was his Junkers oven ignition pistol, too frail to be any use as a means of defence.
The Farting Biting Cat continued its attack. The pain of Roger's injuries caused his muscles to twitch. His hands opened and closed sporadically. The tip of the Junkers oven ignition pistol crackled with sparks. The Farting Biting Cat released a cruel fart, to stun its victim in preparation for a coup de grace. The Junkers oven ignition pistol instantly kindled the voluminous fart, sending a jet of blue flame back into the body of its author.
Roger was deafened by the explosion beyond the thick fur pressed to his ear. The Farting Biting Cat rocketed from his shoulder, trailing flames and acrid smoke in its wake. It thudded into the far wall of the lounge room, plummeted summarily to the floor and died, farting and biting uncontrollably. Nursing his ravaged face, Roger stumbled from the kitchen and felt for the telephone.
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