Bein Innernashunl Reqwir Lotsa Brayn

Musashi Sez:

Ther I wuz, in the middul of the Paris Agrculchurul Sho, an whut do mai pertee yello eyez see but Picotero Paco, the flamenco-singin Bursels sprowt farmr from southrn Spain. “Picotero” meen chattrbox. It is a gud naym fer him. He was sittin ther at his taybul decoraytid wift big palm treez, talking to a big scaree dog wift orinj eyebrowz.

He sed, “Probablemente se esté preguntando cuál es mi secreto. Yo voy a decir. Yo le canto al coles de Bruselas. Canciones de amor. El amor estimula el crecimiento.” (Probably you are wondering what is my secret. I’ll tell you. I sing to them. Songs of love. Love stimulates growth.”

The doggee sed (wift an aksent), “Tienes que amar a los brotes mucho, entonces.” (You must love sprouts very much then.)

“Ah, si! Si!”

And I lookd up at the taybul an I realizd that whut I had thogt wuz a palm tree wuz akshullee a enormous bursel sprowt.

I cud not halp maiself. I busted out sayin, “Holy toona!” (I dozn’t lik mackerl.)

The orinj eyebrowz turnd mai wae. “Yu shpeek ze Anglish, hmm?” His breft smelld lik a combinayshun of raw meet an bursel sprowts. An basil.

I sat down an curld my ploomy blak tail around mai front feets. “Why, yes, I do.”

“Vunderbar. I vas told to egspekt an American katze in a smoking jacket.”

I wuz confuzzld. “But I don’t smok.”

“Yu vud say, perhaps, ze tuxedo. Yu ar, perhaps, aqvaynted vith a bizniz-vomen katze by ze naym Felicity, hmm?”

“Why, yes. Mamzelle Felicity of the Doggee Toy Empyr. Yes, I am.”

“Vunderbar. Yu vill com vith me, plees? It vill be to your advontage, hmm?”

At that momint, about ten diffrint fyootchurz went whizzin thru mai brayn, incloodin the one wher I ended up this doggee’z dinnr. Also the one wher I gets the Nobel Pryz fer mai recipee fer catnip custrd. An the one wher I doez a bunjee jump off of this big ol’ dam, hundrds of feets down towerd the wattr, pull out mai Walther PPK pistl wift mai front paw an shoot—

Picotero wuz thrilld. “Pero es mi buen amigo Octavio! Usted no puede ir ahora! Debemos tomar una copa! He desarrrrollado una notable marrrtini con vodka muy seco y licorrr de coles de Brusellllas!” (But is my good friend Octavio! You can't go now! We must have a drink! I have developed a remarkable martini with very dry vodka and liqueur of Brussels sprouts!)

He wuz rollin his l’s an his r’s so much, I had to wundr jus how recent the developin process had ben. I tried to decyd whether to go wift the scaree doggee or stay wift Señor Chattrbox heer. I figgrd I’d load mai coin flip. If the ansr wuz flamenco, I’d stay wift Paco. If it wuzn’t, I’d go wift the doggee.

“Picotero! Mi amigo!” I sed. “¿Qué tipo de canción de amor te canta a su cultivo? Flamenco?” (Whut kind of lov songs yu sing to yer crops aneewae?)

“¿El flamenco? ¡No! ¡Canto club! ¡Consiguió una manera dulce de hablar!” (Flamenco? No! I sing disco! ‘You got a sweet way of talking—’)

Darn. I wuz goin to hav to go wift the doggee.

On the othr paw, at leest I wuzn’t goin to hav to lissen to Paco sing that annoyin Leo Sayers song mai mom liks so mutch…

See? Eevn hart-rendin danjer hav a brigt sid.

Maykin Contakt Unegspektidlee

Mom Says:

(Yeah, long blog = go to litterbox. Get used to it. We’re not going to tell you from now on.)

Agent Octavian quite liked his new friend Picotero Paco, the Brussels sprouts farmer and flamenco singer, but honestly! The beautiful mouse dancer was nice, but it felt like Paco had been singing for a whole week.

Ya no sufro! Noooooo!
Ahora yoy a dar mi corazòn,
mi corazòn sangrante,
sóloooooo a la lunaaa….

(No longer will I suffer! No!
Now I shall give my heart,
my bleeding heart,
only to the moon….)

“Huh!” Octavian thought to himself. “Suffr, suffr, moon, moon. Enugf alreddee! Is tim fer som disco!” But just as he was thinking this, Paco ended with a flourish. Timidora bowed. The guitaristas stood and bowed. Paco shook himself as if he were coming out of a dream. The crowd stomped and whistled and shouted, “Olé! PicoPaco! Olé!”

Musashi Sez:

So old Paco went off, mutterin that he had ben hijackd by “duende,” whutevr that is, an got himself a dringk. I assoom he got som likyoooor de sprowt de Bursels or like that, but I din’t talk to him again aftr.

An that wuz moslee cuz the pertee mousee laydee com to our taybul to talk to us. Malena pickt up the strugglin Gato and givd him to that othr gy, sayin, “Javier, tenemos camarones extra? Alimentan a este gato con la puerta cerrada. Entendido?”

“Si,” sed Haveeyayr, tryin to keep Gato wift jus 2 arms, but akshul he do okay.

The mousee lookd onlee a littul happier aftr Gato left. She kept givn me the hairy eyball. I tried purrin, but that not seem to halp.

Alek manidjd to calm her down by talking about her dansin as if he nu stuff. Huh. He spoktid in a mix of Spannish an Inglish, an somtimz Malena tranzlaytid an somtimz Perro did. I wuz not folloin the conversayshun until Alek did somthin to mai collr that he calld “chaynjin the freekwensee.” At ferst, I wuz insultd, thingkin he wer callin me a freek, but wen whut he did werkd, I figgrd it had somthin to do wift the mousee laydee’s reellee high vois.

Mom Says:

After making Señora Timidora comfortable with small-talk, Alek said, “You know, I think your husband and I, and my friend Octavian here, have a mutual friend in London, with his initials…”

Timidora squeaked, “O?”

And Alek said, “No. M.”

And Timidora said, “O! What U wan?”

“We’d like to meet with him, if we could.”

“Y?”

“It’s…complex. But his former employer is up to old tricks, and we are hoping to avoid a big mess. Entendido?”

“Ah…C…”

“Could you arrange it?”

“Ah… May B…C… Ah... I tell M. Mmmmm. Huh! C! Com wif Mee!”

And before any of them had planned to move, they were following her out of the bar and into the darkened city streets of Grrrranada.

Wae Up Ther on Byootifulest List

Mom Says:

It wasn’t even midnight when Octavian and his friends sat down with Malena, the bar owner/flamenco dancer, so it wasn’t a big surprise that, as they talked, customers—new (no bruises) and old (lots of Band-Aids)—came to the Vista Granada and began (or resumed) their eating, drinking, and listening to the music. Because of course, Paco, that old trouper, just kept on singing out the pain of all the cats of southern Spain, the human gypsies of Andalucia, and all those of every species and every region whose love had ever been betrayed, whose hearts had ever been shredded.

La luuuuuna es fría, pero honestoo.
Aaaay yaaaa yi yi yi yi yai!
La luuuuuna se ve mi dooolooor,
el suuufrimentooo que me causaste.

(The moon is cold, but honest.
Ouch! Ow! Ow! Owww!
The moon sees my pain,
the suffering you caused me.)

Octavian sat next to Malena in the corner booth, one front paw on her leg, and listened adoringly as she described the history of flamenco music and dance.

“You see,” she said. “The gypsies heeer have been mistreated, spat upon, called outsiders, and pushed out, overrr and overrr. So when the gypsy stamps the foot in the flamenco, he is saying, ‘Heer, thees my home, wherre I stand!’ So, you know, next time other peeeples make heem move on, well, the land is deefferent, yes, but hees feet are the same, and he can always claim the place he stand as hees home. You see?”

Octavian and Gato purred. Alek nodded quite seriously, saying, “Señorita—“

But Malena’s attention had shifted to her feet. She looked down and said, “Si, dígale a Javier para configurarlo para usted.”

The Spaniard who had helped clean up dragged a table in front of the musicians and wiped it down with a rag. Nodding to the guitarists (because Paco was in a world of his own), he stepped away again. Octavian and Gato, who saw the flash of white and red move from the floor to the table, flexed to leap at it, but Malena’s strong hands fell on their collars and restrained them. “You no attack Señora Timidora. Sheee eeez one of our best dancers. You heer mee?”

And the cats purred penitently, but Malena did not let go.

They watched breathlessly as a tiny white mouse, in a scarlet dress and a lacy black veil, began to dance. If Octavian had been impressed by Malena’s easy human gracefulness, he was absolutely floored by the natural elegance of the little mouse.

“Wow!” said Octavian, betraying his American roots. “She the bomb! Whu is she?”

Malena let go his collar (while still holding onto Gato’s). “Shee eez called Timidora, because she marreed a Russhian whu did not approoov of her Christian name: Maria de los Gatos Timidoro Garcia.”

Octavian said, “So her husbun, the Russhin, is a Garcia? That don’t sound rigt.”

“No, no. Her mother was Garcia. Her father was Timidoro. What does her husband have to do weeeth eet?”

Alek turned to Octavian, saying, “It’s cultural, old man. I’ll explain it later.”

The little white mouse, Timidora, danced with her tiny eyes closed, passionately,

Poooodré amar de nuevoooo,
después de suuuuuu traicióooon
espiadada? De la luuunaaa
brillaaaa de nuevooooo,
después de que ha disminuidooo?

(Shall I ever love again,
after your heartless betrayal?
Shall the moon shine again,
after it has waned?)

“Wow,” Octavia said again. “Whut’s her husbnd’s naym?”

“Heem?” said Malena disparagingly. “Oh, hee neverrr com heeer. Heees naym is Mysh Medvyedovich Myshov…”

Alek sat up very straight. “Really,” he said. “What a fantastic dancer she is. Do you think we could express our admiration to her later?”

Malena said, “Si, right after thees song.”

Meetin up wift Mai Homeez

Mom Says:

Long blog. Visit your litterbox or equivalent. Kthx.

Musashi Sez:

In his faymus book, The Hobbit, Perfessr Tolkien sed that the fun stuff gets told reellee eezee an goez reellee fast, but the borin stuff tayk wae too mutch time to tell. Or somthin lik that. (I din’t pae too mutch attenshun cuz the book got no kitteez in it. Yah. Non at all! Kin yu imajin?).

Aneewae, we skeddaduld unner the bar whyl the tall laydee egsplayned to the Grrranada polees about the stoopid barfigt. We kept an unconshus ninja bak ther wift us, an the polees took the rest awae. An I noe yu’r goin to be surpryzd (tho neethr the laydee or the polees showd the littlest surpryz), but mai fren, gud old Paco? Yah. He jus kept singin:

La luuuuna brillaaaaa con friàldad.
Aay yaaa yi yi yi yai! Aay yai yi yi!
Suuu luuuuz se meustraaaa al mundoo
cooooon claaaaaaridaaaad
looo que haaaaaa hechoooo.

(The moon shines coldly.
Ouch! Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow!
Her light shows the world
clearly what you have done.)

Mom Says:

After the police left, Alek and another man helped the bar’s owner sweep up the glass and mop down the floors. Still on the floor behind the bar, Octavian, Perro and Gato woke up the ninja and interrogated him.

Well, okay, that’s the nice way of putting it. Actually what happened was this: Perro licked his face (the black mask had long since gone the way of most shoe-shine rags), and Octavian tested his claws on the man’s neck. Gato, whose HyprNip high (long story, Alek will catch you up later) had finally receded, sat back in the corner, groggily licking his legs and occasionally glaring at the ninja when the poor man faltered in his tale.

He spoke in Japanese, haltingly, rubbing his jaw. “Ano, neh, boku wa nigatsu kara…watakushi-tachi no onna-no-hito no nekko no jinja ni… hatarakimashita. Hai! Hai!...”

And the LingwaTron translated into English. “Ah, well, since February I have been working at Our Lady of the Cat shrine. Yes! Yes! Honorable Lord Brother hired us for defense and for a future danger he was awaiting. My fellow soldiers and I only found out what the danger was when these two, er, honorable animals, with their honorable dog-friend, arrived at the shrine. All was uproar. As for the Honorable Lord Brother, his face shone like the sun. He summoned us and gathered us around the Honorable Dog-the-Prophet, and we guarded him. Then today, an alarm sounded. Enemies threatened! We meditated and polished our swords and stood ready. But then…”

Octavian sent a few needle-like claws into the man’s throat, gently, but still the man whimpered. Perro said, “Now Octayvion, we mus be paysient wift thees fellr, as he has been cleerlee tromotyzed frrrom theee battul, no? Com, now, Señor Ninja, tell us yu naym, eh?”

“Tanaka Kumo desu. Ano…hajime mashita?” (I am Spider Tanaka. Er…How do you do?”

Perro yawned hugely, managing to show the length and sharpness of his teeth without making it seem like that had been his point; after all, surely, it had been a very long day, had it not? Perro said, “Si, wee arrr verrrree glad to meetchu, Señor Tanaka. But yu got to noe that wee weel bee eeevn morrrr glad eeeef yu tell us thee trrrruth about, mmm, yerrr employerrrrz, eh?”

The ninja, no doubt to his everlasting shame, fainted. Since Alek had tied him tightly, the three friends let him be and came out from under the bar to be welcomed by the lady in the red dress.

“Ahhh, so yuuu arrrr thee onez who brrrrought theez, whatchucall, ninjaz heeer?”

“Er,” said Perro, ducking his head.

Octavian said, “Whu me?”

And Gato looked up at her with huge dark eyes and purred, “I ammmm soooo sorrrreeeeee, Señorrrrita! Had I noen wherrrr mai direkshunz werrrr leeedeeng us, I wud nevverrrr hav led them heeeeerrrrr.”

Octavian noticed with surprise how the human woman responded less to the content of his statement than to its feline harmonics.

“Well,” she said, and sighed.

Octavian leaped in. He whipped the flat, black Spanish hat off his head and bowed elegantly (it was the hat, he thought; there was no way he could have pulled off such a gymnastic feat otherwise). “Señorrrrrita! Yu hav intrrrodoost me to the incomprrrabl joyzzz of flllamenco! How can I evvvvr repay yu?” He wondered if he had gotten the harmonics right.

He had. She softened, spine first, and bent down and pet his silky fur. “What? The flamenco ees new to you? But you arrrr a natchurrrallll…”

“Perrrhaps,” suggested Octavian, “we shud sit an talk!”

Evrbodee Wuz Barroom Figtin!

Mom Says:

Chairs flew. Bottles smashed. Knives were drawn. Small tables served as shields for individual fighters and as barricades for (the rare and few) noncombatants. The musicians, who like all musicians knew that they would get paid only if they kept playing, played. Paco sang:

Uuuuusted está más bellaaaaaa
que la luuuuuuna y más fríooooo.
¡Ooooooo, cómooooo me largoooo
para el sooool.

(You are lovelier than the moon
and more cold. O!
How I long for the sun!)

So, if nothing else, at least the fight was accompanied by the rhythm and poetry of love betrayed. That had to help.

Smack! Bam! Biff! And that was just the humans. The caterwauling of the cats as they attacked dogs, ninjas, non-ninja humans, and each other, was ear-splitting, but all the musicians in the venue noted that there was also a constant bass undertone, provided by the big dogs with their solemn Woofs! and a tenor overtone, provided by the terriers darting about, snarling and chewing on the calves of ninjas (and the occasional non-ninja who had unfortunately worn black trousers that night). Most (though not all) of the YIPES! that night came from the really little dogs, but some came from the men, both ninja and non-ninja, who made the mistake of crossing the women flamenco dancers, with their muscular legs and shoes with all those nails in them…

And still Paco sang:

O, amoooor, me has hechoooo sufrir,
oooo, dichoooos Doooolooores, yi yi yai!
con suuuuus ojooooos la mentira y
el engaño suuuu formaaaa. Aaay yi yi yai!

(O, love, you have made me suffer,
o, such pain, ouch!,
with your lying eyes and
your cheating ways. Ow! Ow! Ouch!)

Three ninjas down. Six ninjas down. Seven…

Sirens were clamoring in the distance, quickly coming closer… The bar was becoming less crowded by the second, leaving only the professional flamencoistas and the professional combatants locked in the fight. Because it wasn’t only humans and cats who were testing their strength against that of other tapas-and-strong-sangria lovers. The woofing, nipping, and yipping showed that the dogs of Grrranada also fought each other and whoever else made the mistake of getting involved.

Perhaps, thought Octavian, as he raked his claws across the eyes of some poor ninja doofus, this was what Jimbond had meant when he had listed the joys of spying as including fighting, running, romancing, being really smart, and driving really fast. The ninja hit the floor (which was already scattered with broken glass and splashes of wine and blood) groaning some rude Japanese. Octavian leaped! up onto a table and scanned the room for his next opponent, but even as he watched, Perro and Gato took pieces out of another ninja, and the last met his demise with a fairly solid red high heel to the head. That tall lady was pretty fierce, as well as being an amazing dancer.

Perhaps, thought Octavian, he would have to tell Jimbond about the joys of dancing.

Mai Ferst Figt wift Ninjas

Mom Says:

As one might imagine, the entrance of ninjas into a public place could cause panic, even among urban dwellers who deal with street violence on a regular basis. Screams, for example. Fleeing, perhaps. Rushing toward emergency exits, at the very least. As it turns out, one would be wrong.

Start with a group of machismo Spaniards who have been making free with the sangria. Add a group of dogs who have been forced to listen to a cat sing, a group of cats who have heard the disparaging remarks of the dogs, and a handful of women flamenco dancers with shoes that have nails hammered into them. Lots of nails.

Then, add a dozen ninjas, wrapped up in dramatic black clothes, armed with black swords and little spiky round things, and in a really bad mood due to their VW bus being outrun by a Citroen with flames coming out of its tailpipes. The outcome is a foregone conclusion.

Given the blood and pain to come, it would seem wiser just to declare the winners and call the whole thing off, honor satisfied. After all, one hates to see a dozen highly trained ninja shredded to the consistency of ground beef. Agent Octavian thought all this in the split second after Perro, Gato and Alek ran in, followed by the ninjas. In the split second that followed that, he had two separate but related thoughts.

The first was, “Huh, Mr. Conshunce, yu’r no fun!” And the second was, “Hey! They’r reellee tough an well-armd! So wen I killz them, it’ll be totullee by aksident! M can’t yell at me! Wooo hooo!”

Then, naturally, he attacked.

The ninjas were still drawing their black swords when Octavian leapd!, all claws extended, and shredded the first ninja fellow’s face like a huge ball of newspaper. He rode the man’s head as the man fell to the floor screaming, and he leaped away and wrapped himself, with all eighteen claws and all thirty teeth, around the right leg of the next ninja fellow. Screaming. Bottles breaking. Cheerful Spanish curses.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the chaos around him, with his eyes closed, Picotero Paco sang:

La luuuuna miaou luuuuna ayaa-yi-yiii!
¿Cómo pooooooodría Te amoooooo?
Tratos oooooooo Penas Cruuuuuuueles!
hermooooosa luuuuuuuuuuna!

(The moon, my moon, O! Ouch!
How could I love you?
Cruel, beautiful moon!)

Musashi Sez:

Wow! Bar figtin isn’t haf bad! I almos nevr gets a chans to let mai inner tygr out, cuz mom sorta frown on that sorta thin unless yer lyf in danjr, but hoo-wee! Fynlee mai lyf wuz in danjr an I cud let my clawrz down, if yu noez whut I meen. Fynlee I gets to let all that greshun out on sombodee whu not a nys person (lik mom an her frens an all mai onkuls an ontz—an I gots lots of them!).

Is reelee rathr freein, akshullee. Yu shud mebbe tryz it!

Lernin How to Reellee DANS!!!

Musashi Sez:

So ther I wuz, sittin an listenin to mai nu frend, Paco the flamenco singr (an Bursel sprowts farmr), singin his guts out to a room jus as full of hoomin peeples as it wuz of kittee an doggee peeples. I wuz appreeshiaytin the atmusfeer, an also jus a littul sangria. Then all of a suddin, the tall laydee wift the long red dress went out to the dans flor an started dansin. Yu wud not beleev! She cud go all slo up top wift her arms an hans, an be poundin the floor wift her feets, like myls a minnit! Reellee, reellee fast! I wuz jus amayzd.

Then, parentlee she sawd me wift mai eyz all big an blak wift wundr, and she dansd out towrd me and pulld me bak, so I hads to dans wift her.

O mai.

Now, I has dansd wift mai mom somtimz, but that moslee a waltz or mebbe a jiggrbug. This wuz totallee diffrunt. Wift this, I hads to be wikkid dignifyd, an also yooz mai front legs, which is not so eezee. But jus as I wuz startin to thingk I cud not do it, som gy thruw me his flat blak flamenco hat. I putted it on, an suddinlee, I wuz dansin! Huh. Pertee awsom!

An Paco singd:

Oooo, poooobre poooooco gatoooo!
Ooooo pobrecitoooooo! Pobre de mí!
¿Cómo pooooodría Te amoooooo?
Tù has arañado miaaouuu cordazóoooon!

(O! Poor little kittee!
O, poor little one! Poor me!
How could I love you?
You have scratched my heart!)

So ther I wuz, dansin mai hart out, whil the guitaristas guitared an the singeristas singd, an the othr peeples clapped—12, 1-2-3, 4-5-6, 8, 10—along wift the rithum of the myoozik. An jus as I wuz thingkin, “Huh. I the bomb!” an stuff lik that, Perro, Gato and Alek ran into the bar.

An then the werld egsplodid.

Mai Ferst Flamenco, O Mai!

Musashi Sez:

This a long one. Yu gyz shud probabul jus mayk shur to goez to littrbox befor yu reeds mai blog fer the nex cuppul of daez. OK?

Mom Says:

Picotero Paco led Agent Eight through the Barrio de los Animales, weaving slightly, but still keeping up a constant commentary in Spanish that the LingwaTron was having an increasingly harder time understanding. After a while, Octavian simply turned it off. How important was communication, really, under such circumstances?

They entered yet another tapas bar. This one sported brick walls with landscape paintings warmly lit by yellow light. Humans as well as dogs and cats moved through the place, dancing, sitting in corners, munching tapas and drinking sangria.

The guitar music was rough and emotional, and at first Octavian thought, “Huh. Jazz is betterer than this!” But as they moved through the crowd and he inhaled the passion as it zigged and zagged invisibly through the room, he admitted silently to himself that he might—just possibly—be wrong. Maybe. Perhaps. And he had clearly intended it all along. Huh.

Suddenly, a tall human woman in a very fancy long red dress stood before them and picked up Paco. Quickly Octavian turned the LingwaTron back on, just in case this was one of those situations where it would be best to run to get away from some messy love affair gone wrong. (Humans get very fussed when suddenly there are kittens in their home as well as cats…)

“Picotero! ¡Por fin! Debes cantar para nosotros esta noche!” (Chatterbox! Finally! You must sing for us tonight!)

“Sí,” said Paco. “Por supuesto. Tal vez más tarde.” (Yes, of course. Maybe later.)

“Ahora!” (Now!)

Octavian couldn’t hear Paco’s purring, but he recognized the signs. The tall lady carried Paco to a table near the guitarist and turned the microphone toward him.He licked his paw and washed his face reflectively, then murmured something to the guitarists. Then he began to sing.

For Octavian, who had only ever heard fence-singing in America when he was very, very young, the electrifying performance of Paco that night forever changed his view of the artistic abilities of his species. Paco sang with a voice like broken glass. Octavian’s eyes watered from the sheer beauty of it.

Aay yaaa yi yi yi yi yi yai!
Oooo doloo-ooo-ooor miaouu!
Luuuuuuna (aay yaiii!) miiiaouuu,
La luna miaou luna ayaa-yi-yiii!

(Outch!!! Outch!!! O! My pain!
My--ouch!--moon,
The moon, my moon, O! Ouch! Ow! Ow!)

Musashi Sez:

Meanwhile, back wift mai othr buddeez…

Now, of cors, I onlee fyndid this stuff out laytrer, but whil I wuz havin a big old cultchurl epifunnee, mai buddeez Alek, Gato an Perro wer in mortul danjr. Cuz the reellee gud thin about GPS is that yu kin fynds wher yu want to go. But the bad thin is, if yer emenmies hear yu tell sombodee wher yu want to go, they kin yooz their GPS to fynd the saym plays.

This migt seem obveeyus to all yu jentul reedrz in yer ergonomic armchayrz bak hom in the Stayts, but when yu’r out in the feeld, an yer adrenalenalin iz pumpin awae, is hard to remembembr stuff lik this. An also, yu has to figgr that Alek (lik me) is kinda nu at all this spyin, an PyG, tho they ben runnin their listenin post in Marrakech fer a long tim, hasn’t got the feeld egspeereeyens that wud mayk them mor smartypants.

So they didn’t egzaktlee leed thoz darn ninjas to the Vista Grrranada. Of cors not. But them ninjas found it jus the saym.

That Rod Longr Than I Thogt!

Musashi Sez:

So ther I wuz, on the rod wift this innerestin Spaynish kittee whu smelld a littul bit of the ‘Nip, an he talkt an talkt an talkt. I asksd him whut his naym wuz an he sed, “Paco! Pero me llama Picotero!” An mai LingwaTron wuz telling me that he wuz callin himself a chattrbox. I agreed wift him.

He telld me how it wuz to be a free kittee in Espayn, to be a kittee whu choozd to driv the truk, whu groo an seld the Bursel sprowts, an whu sung the flamenco songz. Now, of cors, I hav herd of boft Bursel sprowts an flamenco from mai mom, so I kin talk about them both, eevn tho I hav not got the persnl egspeeriens. An that a gud thin, cuz mai tinee littul noelidj carreed us fer mylz an mylz, moslee cuz Picotero-Paco gotst lotsa opinions about evrthin, but partiklr about Bursel sprowts an flamenco. Yu migt not egspekt it, but, accordin to him, together, they ar the pinnakul of sivilizayshun. Huh. Whuu’da thunk? I bet eevn mai mom didn’t noe that…

Mom Says:

Meanwhile, even as Agent Octavian was having his cultural horizons broadened, Alek, Perro and Gato were facing the more distressing situation of ninjas following them with the clear intent of cutting off their horizons entirely. Even though the ninjas were traveling in a VW bus of uncertain vintage, our heroes naturally did what any of us would do in a similar situation: they panicked.

“Dooooooo somtheeeen!” howled Perro.

Alek did something. He shifted the car into “fifth gear.” A loud WHUMP! came from the rear of the car as it shot away from its own flame. Alek saw the speedometer hand race from 100 kilometers per hour to 115 to 130 to 145…

The ninjas’ VW bus disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust.