The Picture challenge!

As I wrote earlier (in THIS post), I decided to set my self a challenge. So I used the first result I came across whilst googeling the word "pictures" and then spent one hour writing a story inspired by that picture. I was not too pleased at the result to be honest..

This was the very first picture that popped up:

Excellent.

Well, I only had one hour, so I swiftly named him McCat, and wrote the first story that popped into my head.

Enjoy!

//  Tee  --  Thinks the internet never disappoints... 

----

McCat

Life is hard out here in the West.

When the well-known outlaw McCat first entered our town on that hot day in June, it is fair to say that the air was tense. We could all feel the promise of a fight in the air, vibrating in the heat. With his white fur gleaming in the baking sun, McCat walked up the main street of the village, his yellow eyes staring straight ahead, ignoring the hisses from the few town cats he passed. I saw him myself that day, perched as I was on the top balcony of the town whorehouse. It was as if the tension had woken me up from my midday slumber. I looked down on the high street and saw McCat walk up the middle of the dusty lane towards the sheriff’s office.  One by one the town cats started to line up by the side of the street, as if teased out of their hiding places by the very atmosphere this famous cat brought with him.

McCat had been the faithful companion to a human outlawed train robber, well known all through the West. At the start of his career McCat was frowned upon in all cat circles, and his behaviour of attaching himself as a mere pet to a human was discussed with distaste. But that was before the sheriff-human of this very town had cashed in on the bounty on McCats human friend's head…

“Dead or Alive”, the poster had read, and the sheriff had felt the former was to be preferred. The wrath of McCat that followed was fabled, and the stories of his adventure as a loner cat, spread across the west like wildfire. He belonged to no one these days. No village, no glaring, no human. With what was known as “the fastest claw of the west” he stole what he needed and was feared for his ruthlessness.

As the famous cat walked up the street, the sheriff-cat himself appeared from underneath the sheriff’s office where he had his lair. As the sheriff-cat of this town, a position he had gained in a number of fair fights, Bob was a proud tabby with a powerful chest and tail held high. I had always nurtured a soft spot for him myself, but he had never even looked at me twice. Like many others he resented the fact that I had claimed a human, here in the whorehouse.

I knew it was preferable to be a free cat with no ties other than to the town, but I also could not help myself from taking the opportunity when it presented itself. The stupid human with all the skirts had found me hiding on her balcony in the pouring rain one evening, and invited me in. The rooms were to my liking, so I decided to stay and take the human as my own. It was a favourable arrangement, with plenty of milk being brought to me when I pleased, and I really could not understand why it was considered as an undignified position. The sheriff-cat, and most of the town, preferred a lair of their own and frowned upon cats like me. These views always made me angry, and I secretly despised the lot of them. However, I couldn’t help myself from secretly admiring the hansom and strong sheriff-cat, Bob..

When I now saw the fearful outlaw approach Bob down on the high street I quickly hid behind one of the balcony corner posts, and kept my ginger tail covering my eyes. This was too horrible to watch!

But a slow meowing murmur suddenly started up amongst the village cats, and I couldn’t help myself from peeking out on to the main street. There they stood, Bob facing McCat, in the middle of the street, a pawlength apart, ready for a duel! I was hit by fear. My beloved Bob would not stand a chance against the fast claw of McCat.

Without thinking I jumped off the balcony, ran across the roof of the saloon, and landed in a side alley off the main street. I slowly sneaked up along the edge of the building and glanced around the corner. I could see the staring green eyes of Bob and the back of McCats head, one scarred ear tilted slightly away.

The strike of McCats paw was almost too fast to see, and Bob was lying on the ground with a gaping gash over his face before anyone had reacted. Anyone apart from me. Without thinking I had set of in a fast gallop, and with furious strikes, fuelled by anger, I started fighting McCat. He had heard me coming and had turned around ready to fight. Something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was the thought of fighting a small molly like me, or perhaps he was tired from the tension of the duel. But within three strikes McCat was at the ground bleeding as badly as Bob.

I still remember that day in June, when I became the new town sheriff-cat. After beating the fabled McCat I became a legend myself. One of the first changes I made was that I encouraged all cats to try and take a human. As more and more village cats started to realize the useful ways in which humans could be used for their own benefit, I became a very popular sheriff-cat.

Life is hard out here in the west. But less hard these days if you are a cat.