R & R for The Kittens

After a morning of vigorous rehearsals the Kittens of Chaos were relaxing, feet up on the tables of a street café across the road from the Opera House. Half emptied glasses of Absinth clinked, hookahs bubbled, a scorching sun beat down, though a dark and mysteriously threatening cloud was rolling in eastwards from across the bay.

Slowly a hideous if melodic wail became discernable above the sounds of the bustling street. The caterwauling was accompanied by the thrumming of powerful diesel engines and the rhythmic crunch of marching feet. Up Gloucester Street from the Esplanade two slow moving Hummers with Browning M2 .50 calibre machine guns mounted in open turrets on top, their faded camouflage obscured beneath a riot of corporate logos wound their way towards the performers. The vehicles were followed by long straggling lines of figures in assorted superhero Lycra and a half dozen Scottish pipers. As the force neared the opera house the ogling kittens could make out Captain Britain, Union Jack and Lionheart heading the infantry, with Captain Midlands jogging to catch up and wheezing slightly. In the main body of troops were several Captains America and Blackwidows, a Thor, Ms Marvel and a Wolverine in papier mâché mask, with the rest made up of a rag-tag of shimmering blue and scarlet Lurex bought ‘as seen’ from a T.J.Maxx post event Halloween costume sale. Some of the Kittens became agitated.


“Señorita Starcluster! I think you should come and see this.”

“Mmmm, they do look hunky. And so many of them.”

“Cool it Trixie, a lot of that musculature looks like latex to me. It’s all rippling in the wrong directions.”

“Hnow girrrls…” Consuella Starcluster, the tambourine virtuoso and manageress of the infamous troupe, in FAI Isabelino Cap and loose fitting open neck blouse, leaned over the balcony above to reveal the deep cleft between her ample bronzed breasts. “Thees lot loook like trrrouble. Go and appearrr frrriendly, thrrrow flowerrrs and keesses. But have caution.”

“Oh miss…” A diminutive Batcat, looking remarkably like Fifi-Belle in a bin liner, appeared in the café doorway festooned with ammo belts and staggering under the weight of her Spas combat shotgun. And behind her, Supergirl in laddered tights, hefting a loaded RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher. “Can’t we just blast them?”

“Not foorr now, dearrr. Lets zee hwhy they’rre herre feerst.”


And so it was that for the next fortnight or so every performance at the Opera House was sold out, café lights burned long into the night and hotel bedsprings all over St Helier twanged until dawn. The British Imperialist Corporatist Army’s advance across Jersey was halted.


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