King Greywhiskers put on a show of feline fury aimed at impressing his foreign visitors. He succeeded admirably; never would they forget the picture of flattened ear anger that was frightful to behold. His voice became a sibilant hiss of rage, forgotten were his courtly manners.
"Sssso! That rebel thinks he can avoid my edict by going to a friendly neighborhood to commit his catacide, does he? He refuses to show remorse for his gangsterlike behavior, does he? Why, that obscenity on the face of this earth deserves to be cut up and used as fishbait! I swear by my royal kingship, that the only answer is his death! How votes the council?"
By this time the king had left his throne and was pacing back and forth in an angry crouch before the five royal advisors, his tail flicking back and forth in rage.
One by one the five cats on the fence nodded to their king, each giving a murderous yowl of assent and exposing the claws in the right forepaw like flashing sabers. The affirming vote was unanimous! Flintface was as good as dead!
The Royal Chamberlain, the cat who had corrected the visiting bodyguard's bad court manners, now placed himself between the Lady Fluffa and Greywhiskers' royal throne. He paused to impress his visitors with the seriousness of the moment, then gravely he spoke in measured tones.
"Be it noted by our visitors from the land of the Blue-eyes: King Greywhiskers the Fourth has heard and passed judgment on your request. We have condemned the gangster Flintface and will carry out his execution in such time as the Royal Executioner chooses."
Then, feeling the puzzled response of the visitors to the courtly language his king insisted upon using on formal occasions, he lowered his voice until only the visitors could hear and added, "Relax doll-face. You put the finger on the mutt, now the boys will be happy to bump him off!"
Resuming his courtly dignity, the Lord Chamberlain yowled, "Will the Royal Executioner come forth and face his king?"
The circle of court cats moved aside to allow a wide lane for the king's chosen to enter. Even the visitors found themselves slinking backward to place as much distance as possible between themselves and that terrifying presence. Greywhiskers never batted an eyelash but thought gleefully to himself that he bet they did not have anything like that in their kingdom!
The approaching cat looked like death incarnate. He was a good six inches longer than the average adult Tom, and at least four pounds heavier. The tufts of hair on the tips of his ears showed that somewhere in his ancestors there had been a bobcat, which was further confirmed by his twitching stub of a tail. His coat suited his court position, for it was solid black from his nose to his tail. As he strutted slowly toward his king, massive muscles could be seen rippling under his glossy hide.
"Sir Ex," as he was known to the court, was a Tom without the slightest twinge of mercy. It was hard to believe he was the same bedraggled kitten that their king had saved from a storm sewer at the risk of his own life, that had been two years ago, and "Sir Ex" had rewarded his king with a devotion unparalleled in catdom.
"How can I serve my lord?" the big cat murmured with a voice like an idling diesel engine.
"You know what the boss wants," responded the Chamberlain. "How soon can we get some action against this glorified fleabag?"
"I should be ready to lower the boom on the mark by 5:45 Wednesday morning, on the execution field. Will this be soon enough to please my king, or would he prefer I cut him to ribbons tonight while he sleeps?"
"I prefer the formal execution. It will better impress other members of the canine tribe that might become troublesome."
Two days, mused the king, his mind racing like a calculator. Two days will give sufficient time for the visitors to report back to their king, and then… he decided on a bold stroke of diplomacy.
He waved a regal paw to an elderly cat at the head of his loyal advisors. It was evident from the elder's arthritic walk and the white hairs on his muzzle, that this was one of the oldest dwellers in Catasia. After consulting with him in subdued tones, the king nodded to his hit man in satisfaction.
"The Royal Astrologer informs me the stars are right and the weather should be good on the day you have chosen. I trust your judgment in this matter, for you have never failed me."
Then turning his attention to his visitors, he continued, "Return to your king, most welcome visitors, and inform him that he is invited to send a detail to observe this execution, or if he should choose, to even come himself to observe our royal justice!"
We'll teach that upstart not to doubt our ability to cope with any situation! His entire contingent of bodyguards could not polish off a dog the size of Flintface! Wait until he sees Sir Ex in action, his whiskers will have a permanent curl!
Now if they had been human beings, the entire court would have gasped aloud at their king's audacity. Suppose Sir Ex failed to bring it off? But being well-mannered cats, they merely squinted their eyes and flicked the tips of their tails in anticipation of the great event.
The court broke up and the citizens went their various ways. Soon all Catasia would be buzzing with the king's daring invitation, but it was tacitly understood that no information would be leaked to anyone friendly with the intended victim; for cats know well the value of guarding secrets, and in all the animal world, no one can keep a secret better than they.
Sir Ex passed the word: he had an urgent message for the Sirs Fairhowl and Strongheart, they were to report to him at once. They knew better than to keep him waiting.
The message was simple; the "mark" was to be placed under constant observation. It was urgent that he know Flintface's personal status by 5:30 Wednesday morning. In the meantime, Sir Ex had some work to do on the important matter of checking out the execution machine.
So saying, he moved over to his favorite "scratching post," a nearby telephone pole, and proceeded to peel off great splinters of wood while he exercised his powerful back muscles. Without a sound the other two knights melted away into the morning darkness.
His two scouts came back and reported to Sir Ex the following evening, but their report was not good. Their target was in bad with his owners. They had caught Flintface chasing cars and had chained him in his yard for an indefinite time.
"That's it, boss. You will have to postpone the action until the 'mark' serves his time and gets out of the clink!"
In the stream of cat profanity that followed this suggestion the two royal knights gathered the following information: Sir Ex felt that dog couldn't do anything right, not even to keeping an appointment to depart this life; he was saddled down with two asinine helpers who did not know that you simply did not put off affairs of state; and by the cat-god's headdress, he for one was going to make the deadline if he had to do everything all by himself!
Then Sir Ex resumed the calm, probing air that all catdom had come to fear and respect. Was the mark on a leash, rope, or chain? Were they certain? How long was it? Where was it fastened, to the fence or a peg in the ground? Were they positive?
Over and over the questions were asked until Sir Ex had an accurate picture of the situation. Flintface was in his backyard, chained to a wrought iron fence about six feet long, and the chain had a snap lock on it. Clearly the cats would have to enlist outside help. And he knew where that help was going to have to come from.