A Cat in a Tree

Hey everyone, Lemonator here. This is my entry for the 2011 March/April Newgrounds Writing Contest, so there's no pornographic material. However, I thought my fans would be interested how I do with a non-smutty piece of fiction. If you're not interested, head over to my userpage. There's plenty of porn there.

-Lemon

Rubbing his temples, Detective Tanner looked down at the young man sitting on the floor and sighed. He gestured to the dead body at the foot of the stairs, lying crumpled in the field of violets beyond the confines of the aging farmhouse.



"So," Tanner said exasperatedly. "You're telling me and Officer Keene here that you have no idea what happened?"



There was a trail of fresh blood which began not far from where the man was sitting, across the front porch to where the corpse now lay. His head was smashed open, giving the steps their first fresh coat of paint in over a year. He was still dressed in an surprisingly (considering he had just been murdered) clean navy blue suit. He looked like he had been a fashionable man.



The strange man sat there, his undivided attention on his work. He had amassed a variety of rusted model cars from the early twentieth century and was stacking them meticulously. He had first constructed a horizontal base, then had proceeded to work his way up; he had created a grotesque pyramid of a sort, remarkably steady on the creaking, uneven floorboards.



"That's right," The man said, scratching his thick beard and ever-so gingerly placing another car atop the pile. "Now go away, I'm busy."



Tanner looked at his partner and rolled his eyes.



~~~



In the back of Keene's assigned vehicle, the bearded man clutched his collection to his chest with an unnerving desperation.



"So," Keene asked, looking at their detainee in his rear-view. "What's your name?"



"You know," The man replied. "They won't stay when you're making the car shake like that."



"Let me handle this," Tanner said to his partner, flashing him a grin that displayed a questionable level of confidence. He turned in his seat.



"What's your name, punk? That's the least you can tell us, since you won't say how you killed him." There was a sort of subtle, giddy anticipation in his voice. It disturbed Keene in a way he couldn't quite put into words.



The man said nothing. Then, before Tanner could speak up again:



"...My name's...John," He said, lying.



"Now see," Tanner gave a round of brief, sardonic applause. "Was that so hard?"



"Mike," Keene said, not taking his eyes off the road. "We don't have any evidence yet. Don't jump to conclusions."



Tanner just scoffed and waved his hand dismissively.



"Does it really matter whether he did it or not?" Tanner mused. "I mean, just look at him."



Cradling his model cars like newborns, the bearded man paid no attention to their conversation. Leaning over, he pressed his face flat against the window, squishing his features together in an almost comical fashion.



"Sometimes I wonder how you're still a cop," Keene muttered, eyes flitting briefly to Tanner, catching a glimpse of his grinning face.



The man didn't understand why people liked to look at the sky. In testament to this, he looked down with fascination at the dull gray pavement as it whipped past them.



"Now that's not fair," Tanner said, seemingly offended. Inexplicably, Keene was unable to tell if this was genuine. "You know I'm only kidding."



"Yeah, sure," Keene said, irritably. "Let's just get back to the precinct."



"You guys know the world's flat, right?" Their guest inquired. "I mean, you should. Everyone knows that."



~~~



"Merry Christmas guys," Tanner said, pulling the stretcher with what was once a man sprawled in it behind him. He strolled into the morgue with a spring in his step, Keene following solemnly behind.



"What's that?" Mike Tanner asked, not actually expecting an answer. "It isn't December yet? Well hey. Guess I'm just generous."



Two women were there to greet them, one looking to be in her early twenties--the other much older.



"Thank you," The younger one said, a little coldly. "At least now I'll have something to do."



She was trying desperately to maintain her sense of humor. She felt like every day in this place aged her immeasurably. Her elder on the other hand, found the work to be sobering. A daily reminder of the frailty of life. When he had gone, the twenty-something year old put her face in her hands.



"God," She said, frustrated, her voice muffled. "Why the hell did I take this job? I'm too young for this shit."



"Rachael," Susan said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "This is important. We're helping, trust me."



Turning, Rachael received a warm-albeit tired-smile from the woman who had been doing this sort of thing for so much longer. Rachael made an effort to return the favor, but wound up looking awkward. There was a period of silence then as they began their unpleasant work.



"Sue," Rachael said, without looking up.



"Yes?"



"What have you heard about the case?"



"Well," Susan replied. "We didn't know too much about him. Apparently he was a small town florist. He was around your age-maybe a little younger. I can't attest to it, but everyone we asked said he loved his job, never complained. It's a shame that-"



"Sue. I meant the guy we just dragged in," Rachael said.



"Oh. Yes, that's right. Apparently Officer Tanner found him at the crime scene, sitting on the floor a few feet away from the body."



"Oh, wow."



"What's weirder is that no one has been able to find out anything about him. It's like he just fell out of the sky."



Following Susan's words, the two fell back into silence. There was nothing to say. An insignificant measure of time later, Rachael saw something that made her hesitate.



"Sue, you need to look at this," She said, an unreadable expression on her face. Wordlessly, Susan walked around the table and looked where Rachael had indicated.



"Holy shit," She said.



~~~



The ground was dead. It had not had anything to drink, and so it had died. Shallow fissures weaved throughout the arid turf, creating intricate, dissimilar patterns which seemed to stretch on for miles. The man squinted, trying to see something, anything in the distance. He couldn't. The air boiled around him, the strong winds carrying thick clouds of ash into the sky. His eyes burned and he shut them reactively, falling roughly to the ground.



He opened his mouth to scream, but heard nothing. As tears-both from emotional duress and the hot, abrasive ashes-welled up behind his eyelids, he clutched his knees to his chest and thought with a very real fear that the Earth itself had expired. That it was rotting, that it would turn to mush; soon the worms would be coming-coming to gnaw away at its atrophied flesh. Eventually it would be nothing more than an obese spherical skeleton, orbiting clumsily in space.



But.



He sat up, the wind suddenly dying down. He heard water. Somewhere in this wasteland, there was water. But where? He heard it drip slowly into the needy mouth of the Earth, teasingly moist. In the middle of the cadaver's seemingly endless expanse, a single tree grew. It was tall and healthy, filled with lush, green leaves. And from above, from one of its gnarled branches ran a steady stream of water.



It pooled at the foot of the trunk, running into the cracks in the ground while maintaining its consistency. He stood, walking towards the anomalous growth slowly with infantile wonder. It towered above him, and he looked up into its inherent beauty. From behind a branch, two small, furry ears and a pair of eyes poked out. It was a Clementine-colored cat, and it walked out onto the thin wooden support, eyeing him as curiously as he had the tree. He almost started crying again.



"I didn't do it," He said, face twisted in a tortured mix of horror and despair. "You believe me, don't you?"



"Meow," The cat said.





















"Hey."



The man groaned. A hand roughly grabbed his shoulder, and the next thing he knew his face was stinging, pins and needles dancing across his cheek. He could feel blood slowly dripping from somewhere.



"Well fuck, I didn't mean to hit him that hard," A hoarse voice said.



He opened his eyes, and looked around the room. He could just make out the Officers who had brought him in earlier standing, expressionless against the far wall. Sitting across the table from him was an intimidating figure, his features obscured by the darkness of the room.



"Sorry about that," The stranger said, with faux sincerity. "Just wanted to wake you up, kiddo."



The oppressive silhouette reached up and pulled a thin, hanging chain, bathing them in dim lamplight. The man could now see he had a large, square-cut build and a wrinkled face with graying hair on his thick skull. Although he was likely in his sixties, he looked more than capable of killing a grown man with his bare hands.



"First order of business," He said, with that same manufactured warmth. "I'm Officer Ferguson. What's your name, friend?"



"It's Tommy," The man said, staring at the ceiling.



"Hold on, that's bullshit," Tanner said, arms crossed. "We heard this fucker call himself John earlier."



The old man looked at Keene. The officer merely nodded, confirming his partner's statement. Ferguson reached over, grabbed the bearded man's head, and slammed it into the table. The man bucked, falling backwards with his chair. Red gushed from his nose and he rolled around in agony, making strange, animal-like squeals of pain.



"I'll ask again," Ferguson said calmly, standing over his downed body. "What's your name, friend?"



"I told you, it's Greg!" He shouted, spitting blood with every syllable. Ferguson raised an eyebrow and turned, walking back towards his associates.



"This guy's fucked up," Ferguson said. "I'd say you two found your man."



~~~



The man looked up forlornly at the cascading waterfall of white-a future it seemed he would be denied. The judge's beard was almost regal, the thick colorless hair covering a good portion of his face. His eyes were perfectly horizontal, his mouth the same. At this point in his life, he was impartial by habit.



"Stand before the court son, and tell us what your name is," The judge said in a voice that was neither lacking confidence-nor louder than it needed to be.



"My name is Robert Linelli," The man said hesitantly, standing below the robed gentleman who would change his life forever.



"Very well, Mr. Linelli," The judge replied. "You have been charged with one count of first degree murder, and one count of abduction. How do you plead?"



The man sighed and cleared his throat.



"Guilty," He said, wearily. "I killed him."