Merci Le Chat

Up, up, up in the sky was an air balloon. Covered in wires and decay, the inhabitants calls themselves the bug who like to hug, hug, and hug the sky. But rather they bugs, they are people who good at climbing, climbing, and climbing steeples in churches across many, many different eras of time. Who sing tunes of children’s rhymes, while loading the their ships with aristocratic treasures. While inducing the royals with enduring seizures. Who shake all about like some deranged chimpanzee. But even the chimpanzees are embarrassed to associate with the royals. Who toss them high, high, and high into the polluted air.

The adventures of the bugs, a lost period of history. The bugs themselves wanted such events to be struck from ALL the records, not sparing even Le Chat. Who was given a human name and taught human speech. Who became an angry headmaster, caning girls bottoms and making them do … write off million times each. While burning their eyes with bleach. Because the burning, burning, and burning they feel would not take away the torment their mothers and their mothers before that did to his family during the Revolutions in history.

Cat may be good to eat, for those who wore sabots on their feet. And yet the family did not want to be eaten. The cat supposed that perhaps he could just eat the rest of them, like they did to his family. Yet instead la chat wanted to have a little chat with them instead about human manners. He marched them through the halls: Up, two, three four. Up, two, three, four. And up the spiral staircases to meet other angry school teacher cats, who became the new teachers of the nation. The cat would at times be met by Mr. Clocktime, who would always slump his hat forward, and orate arcane poetry about fourth dimensional physics and seem to beyond the consequences of man. Because he can show up anywhere he likes, and his young daughter Vella had just returned to Earth after returning from the other planet at the end of a Generational Space Voyage! And she brought back strange candies.

But the cat did not want them to have candy, and that’s where the story of the angry head master cat and his vengeful pupil begins.

At the caning of a bottom. Swipe!

Le Chat had a kind of deranged fetish, he worshiped the dead. He worshiped his dead family member cats, who he had been unable to save when the humans had tried to take him with the rest of his family. He felt that he had abandoned his true family, and everyone around him were simply merely players at trying to measure up. For Le Chat, there was only the desire to go gone. To see himself fall.

For him, you would think he had it all. He had a high paying job, a new family he could feed. A human servant girl who tied his boots, and licked his mane to comb his hair. He would always be good about taking his pet to the doctor. This way she never strangled or died, and despite the culture in that time, did not actually desire to see his family go. She had become the little sister whom he wanted to protect. On some level she was different from the other girls in the class that he taught, and this was why he had his wife home school her.

He did not want her to see her cane students. Thus every day of his life there was a certain kind of fear, whether his wife would betray him and have his little sister go to school like the other girls. And whether if he refused to cane her, whether the others would build a kind of resentment, and thus he would have no choice but to cave. He would give in, and decided to stop caning everyone. So it was decided!

He snapped the cane.

“From here on, no more spankings. We will converse one on one about how to handle your situation. No more writes off as well, and I will see to it other teachers that follow me do as I command. Life is complicated and weak, and not for the hopeless and meek.” The girls in the class were unsure of how to feel about it, although feigning no attention. They just assumed it was just another of those false promises Le Chat would make.

It was his soul he was taking away.

He wanted give mercy its way.

Merci that, Le Chat.

“I’m going to Je Mange your sister.” said the human. La Chat could not believe what he was hearing, the could not believe what he was hearing. He did not want to think of what she might taste slathered with butter, and did not want to picture her being shaved and bare.

He pictured the man crackling in cackles, and going “I’m going to Je mange your face.” It was a distance memory the teacher had preferred to forget, and so he would always get emotional triggers whenever the girls would eat lunch outside in the rain under the overhang. La Chat liked to watched the sky turn blue whenever it would stop raining, and thus never lectured them for sitting outside when most of the human teachers he had met during his lifetime would balk, suggesting that during the lightning it would be a rather shocking affair.

After the rain calmed down, he would Je Mange the droplets and let them melt in his mouth. He would sometimes catch them in a glass, and let the girls use the glass whenever he would teach painting. He pictured himself mouthing with his hand, pretending as if his paw were a mouth, and imagine his hand je mangeon the face of the man that had killed his sister. It is difficult to describe in exact words in French from a natural English speaker the sheer terror involved in seeing your closest relative go. Comment Ca Va? Hows it going sir murderer while I slit your throat with my stiletto blade. Although he shuddered from the thought of himself being a vengeful sort.

After the bell the girls left.

It had been a few weeks since he had stopped caning girls, although some would try to giggle at him and Je Mange his soft fur, he grew somewhat my chill over time. He took it in the same way a puppy dog would lick your face as if it to kiss you. He remembered the goodbye kiss he and sister made before she went, and did not like the thought of anymore kisses at the moment.

So he boarded his air balloon, and rode all the way to his country side home where hills were always greener on the other side.

Were the mouth in the kills opened wide.

On the mountain was his tree house!

“Nous sont is not vous sont.” said the cat, typing on his laptop in green font in his home office. The cat was at first reluctant to find a French correspondent, though now he mange up the remains of the wordless.

All the years not knowing that language felt like a waste, though he wondered whether it would be worth interacting with Le Femmes who know the difference between nous sont and vous sont. Ll acknowledged to himself how much amour he had for Elle, despite only knowing for a little while, and even though the interaction was minimum. As a young cat, he never properly learned to say Bonjour! in French. Comment Ca Va, how it going?

So that’s how that was. He carefully would trim his hair into a buzz. He would carefully trim his hair all o’er, though to be a hairless cat in the class room was no fun indeed. But ll knew that the girls felt more comfortable around him, when he almost looked human, or human enough for them to take him seriously. He wore a small fedora for his small head. Comment Ca Va Le Filles he would say, although ultimately he still preferred the English language. English was something that he had grown up with all his life, and still found that the Germanic language was easier for more precise estimates.

Though he longed to someday know the Romantic enough to get himself into a little bit of trouble with it, but saying … no you’re not a chef this is a proper chef! After all he had spent all his youth being a smart ass after his family had died, being eaten by humans. And why should he treat human servants any different? There was a certain level of fear when it came to interacting with French-Americans that was different from interacting with Spanish-Americans, though they were both imperialists at an earlier period of–human–history. It was the fact that he had known a girl in his early school years who tended to use passive aggression as a means of flirting, and he took it very differently than perhaps how she may have intended it. He pictures her going Comment Ca Va Le Homme, while he would pretend not to acknowledge her.

It wasn’t like he enjoyed being rude to people.

He just didn’t want to become closer to anyone. He had become close to his baby sister, and he wouldn’t become closer again.

Why write Le Lettre when you can type a text. Although with so little text, one may lose some subtext, some element of amour. Yet Le Chat was not one for childish games in Le Lettres, as those should be filled with no esprit.

He head never been one for French humor, or even British for that matter. And in this particular section of Seatak, it had become all to apparent his humor was entirely his own. He had a thing for what one might call cosmic humor, the sudden realization that the universe doesn’t give a fuck about you and its up to you to form meaning in your own life. Comment Ca Va sir eldritch, one shall not be your snack today! Before now he had not even considered the idea of becoming any kind of teacher, withdrawing into himself. He gotten into the wrong crowds, the wrong chat rooms.

Yet over time he became increasingly drawn to people’s desire to learn, and at times even learn about him when he had went out of the lime light. He had once known a Le Femme in his younger years had become briefly acquainted with. Of Romanian-American birth, there was some differences between his closet desires to learn French and his mixed feelings about Romanian girls. It was different from British, Spanish, or French. But the friendship worked in a pinch. Although he had learned the difference between Bonjour and Adieu, he never got much of an opportunity to use it. And his paranoia was at an all time high about whether if he lost it he would lose it.

But with Le Lettre, he could find some means of correspondence across different demographics. He met with girls who liked to draw graphics, produce cover art for cheap books, among other things. And yet it was only Romanians and French that had any kind of lasted reluctance. With Romanians it was different from French girls, part of it was his entire uncertainty about what culture they had. Various cheap fantasy movies from the nineties lacked the ability to give him any favors. With French it was fairly certain, even if he did not understand the culture as much as now, was more certain. And yet for whatever reason this never made it to his social interactions.

On some level he knew that his lack of knowing for Romanian girls would make him come across worse than he meant, yet with French had known somewhat how they would like since the fifth grade. Although he kept trying to tell himself it was just one girl. Just one life, just one comment. Just one stupid little kid in the game of life. He dreaded the day she would say, Comment Ca Va Le Homme!

He wanted to protect his Romanian friends.

He had no such warm feelings for the French. Until one day when he met a girl that was willing to help him learn a bit of the local lingo. They would exchange Le Lettres to learn as much as possible. But she had left his life abruptly, but to young for him. It marked the second stage of his withdrawal from the public sphere. He withdrew into the net, he withdrew into the pixels on the screen. He withdrew from the only thing that still gave him a life.

The life of a disillusioned hairless cat.

The story of an alley cat.

You’ll find different kind of fashion here in the classrooms in this school, yet none are dresses of la rouge. I prefer the dresses of la bleu, but you can’t always have everything you want. Comment Ca Va Mr. Blanc, and Bonjour to you. Merci to you. For every other interaction I am much less formal, hows going I said going how is it to you in a hows it going sort of way, or for more the finicky people Comment Ca Va I said going Comment Ca Va in a Comment Ca Va sort of way. Whatever way that may be.

Well you’ll be surprised around here how many idiots will get into said formal affairs, although at least they no longer wear the cap and huge ass bow. I’d rather my diaries and affairs not be associated with a mouse, as they keeps my desires low. It was a normal day in the classroom when the bell rang, then all was over. Finally I could go back to doing what I was doing at home. For the most part classes were as normal, that would read specially designed stories to learn English and I found my competence for their language becoming more so over time. Part of what I did not want in becoming a teacher, was the expectation of nun like purity. Although thankfully over the years this has gone by the way side, although there was a period when nuns fucked more than school teachers. And that’s saying something when I break my teacher’s oath, and take a gypsy girl the occasional night out.

I admit it, I’m a bit of a gypsy taster. Yes, indeed a taster. Although not a waster, I prefer the draw of the dining experience, traveling to various restaurants in the French-American sector of Tacoma and Seattle. Every now and then you’ll meet a Jewish French girl whose long curly locks rival the beauty of the prettiest of stallions, while she fries up in her personal kitchen wild green scallions for the local entrée for the affair. For the most part the staff doesn’t care, it’s only if you try to court a student. But the age of middle and high school students become older by the decade with the medical technology advancing, remaining in high school till you’re twenty seven–for a human child, it is not uncommon.

Aside from the cooking, my favorite part of women is for those whose feet are not bony and have just a little bit of meat on them with little stubbly toes tightly curled under. For those I stare as these girls help the gypsy in the mom and pops kitchen in their ornately hand woven dresses.

The girls with the loosely woven pigtails is the best.

I like her a bit better, she doesn’t flirt with customers, her feet gorgeous. And her eyes you could stare into like the sun yet without going blind. The feeling of brightness that makes you smile forever.

“Bon Apetite!” she said, and left with not attention to me.

About as I prefer.

One so rarely gets a vacation, primarily on weekends. Le Chat never understood why some places have people work on weekends, although he had never personally been religious. So the significance was never for that, although it was primarily his narcissistic parents that reinforced the idea that if you’re not religious then working during the week days should be no problem. But what better way to have decompress from your work than on at the end of the week? He could enjoy La Nuit as much as he wanted, and engaging in some of the other projects her enjoyed in his spare time. Even after all these months, he had never completely gotten used to the idea of learning French. When you develop certain kinds of negative associations with them, you never really think of them outside of any other context.

With the British it is different, although socially they were not much better. He had known a British girl in school who was unsure of what to make of him, based on his catlike appearance, and why a cat should be able to go to a human school along with humans. Although she never had any issue with petting Le Chat, that said a lot more about her than the negative things he associated with Blanc and Stephine. She would without realizing shake her booty at the cat outside, walk in a certain kind of way that made it obvious she was shaking her but at Le Chat. The memory was never something that thrilled him, although at times it felt like another missed opportunity to make a friend like the girls of Bonjour and the girl of Hola. He imagined for himself what it would be like if he had met a French-Spanish girl.

The compound word would be something like Bonjola. Just for shits and giggles, at times he considered the idea of changing up the word whenever he would greet the girls in the classroom just to see how confused they would get. Bonjola, Bonjola, sir Le Chat. He was was visited by his pet crow who flew into the window. “A message for Le Chat, a message for La Chat. Bawk!” the crow said. Le Chat walked over, pet and kissed the birdie. After love pecking Le Chat, the bird flew off into the lunar light. “Nevermore! Your story for the Gothic middle grade magazine collection has been … reJECTed. Good luck next time my friend!”

He tossed the letter into the fire place.

He stoked it grudgingly.

For many months Le Chat tried to make himself submit to places, although after a point it became all to clear that even within the scope of Gothic narrative he would never exactly a perfect fit for anything. He had tried writing science fiction, fantasy, horror, romance, and autobiographies. However to no avail. After a point he began to decide to primarily write his own thing and screw convention. He decided to dump the idea of writing short stories altogether and go ahead and pursue the novel, although the novel had been something that previously had always been a chore.

But whenever his work began to take on an increasing autobiographical quality through magic realistic narrative without a clear plot thread his work became longer and longer. Until eventually the very idea of his character stepping from his novel into his personal life began to take shape. And that was how he met his pet crow. His crow founding living with the scope of the pages to be rather boring. He would wake up Le Chat while he was snoring, and tell him he had a visitor. He would sometimes he visited my little lost children looking for their mothers who died in the revolutions. And so he would direct them to the graveyard in which they were buried. It is to bad indeed, for he wanted to ask them how his little sister was doing after these years in the world beyond this life.

His baby sister La Chat was the only one in his family he had been particularly close to, and they would visit different places that survived the various revolutions, and explore the ruins of earlier time periods. They would see various human girls being taken to the scaffold and have a guillotine blade shot through their neck with a guillotine gun western style.

He always tried blocking them memories out.

She never knew his hatred for himself. An aspect of himself he kept hidden from people he had known, and how his own feelings he made him attempt his own life several times.

But those times were gone.

Only the feelings remained.

It was many a year ago, when I grew up with my La Chat. We spared no bonjour, and never said adieu. She was a child, and I was a child. In a land torn apart by war, they were times that were hard to ignore. Yet for my little darling La Chat, there was only the dance till death.

At nights I dream dreams of my La Chat. I dream dreams of a time when we could still time, being nothing but cats. Instead of I experience experiences experiencing the darkest dreams on cannot ignore. And at night I long for her smile, as if we had seen each other in a while. And long for her embrace, to be kissed by her face. To peck each other on the cheek. Yet for the Chats, there was no more between us and the damned. For me, there was only the death of cats. In my dreams I dream dreams that is alive, where she was no taken from me by a knife. I would give my life, to be with her. Yet here I am, unable to close my eyes.

At night I travel the town, I do not try to kill myself. But I don’t try to prevent it, as I dream dreams of a time when I can be no more. I dream dreams of that copulations and amour between her and I, as I unable to grasp that she is gone. I feel the cold touch of her hand, as I am pulled away from oncoming traffic. And so in those mean streets I had developed a name for myself. They called me suicide cat. I at times visit her grave, and wish things had been different between her and I. Perhaps that is why I had chosen to disdain the French. For they had taken my bride.

People said that I looked pale, and that I did not look well. And at times I was sent home early despite being insistent on teaching, and I would get temporarily payed leave. All to visit my bride. Because for me, there was only her and I. And between her and I, there was nothing but death. At the diners people avoid me, and I would avoid me if I were someone else. People wonder what the stink is that I carry around. It is nothing but hair lock of hair, that I take with me everywhere. I trash to wash the stink away, yet nothing could wash away the particular smell. People would wish me well to my face, and then barf behind my back, and some would not even be so socially conscious. For me, there was nothing but death.

And I longed for the embrace of her cold hands.

As I am gnawed by her apparently unclench-able teeth.

At times my life feels like nothing but a torturous dream. For me at times it feels as if my reality has been torn at the seam. Yet for me, I simply teach the language that I can. And some Bonjour to a new world. A world where cats and humans can live side by side, as I dream my final dreams.

Then say goodnight.

Instead I found someone I liked, so I tried to wash up. I stopped visiting my sister, told her that it will be a long while before I see her.

I found solace in her death.

I hope the new girl likes me.

Comment Ca Va! Je Aimer Vous. But Je shall not be an aimer at tu. Get angry at some of these fuckers, and they’ll choose instead to spank you. Non very hard of course, but hard enough to say Bonne Nuit! that was painful. This was something I had to accepter, when I referred to some French girl as tu. “Desole! I meant too as in also.” That is the life of the stupid Le Chat. “Annuler her order. Elle has left me again!” I said to the chef as the date left the diner.

The thing about being an aimer in the west, and an aimer to the France, the Americans just assumer you should get the hell away from that person. But they just assume you’re an aimer for something else. Certainly not for anyone’s aime and affections. I don’t even understand their culture. Whether it’s on videos on the net, or just in regular chatting they get on to me if I refuse to gargle my r sound. Well sorry, I don’t intend to carry around mouthwash everywhere I go. I am the accepter of non of that fucking bullshit at the moment.

I shouldn’t have told her about my sister, she will tell the whole world. I just my small part of it. I only took a small portion of her hair, is there something wrong with taking somebody’s hair? Annuler that answer. These days I try to learn what I can about the language while I’m off work, and thus I’m gargling my bonjour in the privacy of my own motel room. And I almost certainly wont be watching stupid inter web videos about learning the grammar. Of course I already my grammar well enough. Of course now that I’ve moved to the northwest, I no longer have to worry about using those hick sounding words. But I suspect that at times it gets me into more trouble than I would like for it to. And most people here just assume you already know a certain portion of the language before communicating.

They’re like programmers in a way.

You’ll never learn anything.

Apporter the cane, I imagined in my mind. And felt quite profane. I imagined myself, while masturbating to carnal desires, caning the bottoms of college girls while trying to learn what to do with Tu and Vous. They would lift up their skirts, exposing their panties. And then all hell breaks loose with the cane. Wop, wop, wop, wop went the cane. And up to the ceiling they hop. Just what you need to loosen your inhibitions. I can most certainly augmenter the amount of strikes Florette shall get. I imagined Florette continuously asking for bottom caning, with me as her head master. But in reality I would never express to her these desires.

I already have trouble with the language.

She would have trouble with spank language. And these girls I would gently stroke their breasts just under the cups, while they are bent down over the desk. And I would gently rub my fingers around and around. And then up, up, up went my finger tips as they lick my cat fluids off their lips.

But I’m just an English teacher.

Not a college girl bottom spanker. So whatever I imagine in my mind, I separate these desires from my professional habits.

Besides I don’t teacher college girls.

Oh believe me, I would prefer that.

Merci La Chatte.