The Cat Walk

The scar runs down her leg, from mid-thigh, spiraling around her knee to end somewhere near her ankle; it’s hot. And it only took two months of recovery. I run my finger along the fading length of it, parts still raised and red.

“I love it when you do that,” she says. I lick it.

The Cat Walk’s excercise course has already yielded fine results on Judy. After the initial maiming, which gave her this fine battle scar, she was able to return to the course in a little more than two months. And she was, probably because of her newly exaggerated fear, able to excel very quickly. Now she is a fine example — perhaps one of the best examples — of what my Cat Walk can do for you – these arms and these legs, and most cunningly, this back — which I am hoisting myself up on now… mmmph — all show diamond sharp, edgy muscles.

Now, I, myself, look real good on her. I look like I should be on top of this magnificent animal. We fit. Yeah: like this. Mmmph: hoo! The sex is really good since I brought Judy to my Cat Walk. I imagine I’m the cat for a moment. Jesus Christ it’s fucking good.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When I met Judy, she was rather too soft. This coffee is good. Mmm. But next time I need to get a more robust bean. Mmm: I was saying? Oh. Yes. But she was studying law — which was a major turn on. I needed a good lawyer at that time to make The Cat Walk profitable.

Hey: there she is! My beautiful baby. LOOK at MY car. Hunched like a kitty, shining like the eye of a god. Silver. Mmm. Where was I?

Oh, yes, my brainchild and gift to the world — oh, well, to L.A — is THE most expensive exercise venue in the world. And also the most dangerous. One might say, that it’s the danger that makes it profitable. So, anyway, that’s why I needed Judy. Without the law on my side, my clients would not get the very best workout possible.

Turns like a dancer, this car. Like a veritable dancer. And will you look at that? My glass tower. My brain and my muscle. Pensa is in there, speaking of my brain, cooking up a fine brew. Next time I need some of that Mexican coffee. He always knows what to get. Maybe I can send him off shopping sometime. No: too undignified. HE can send Audrey, er what’s ‘er name? Um: I was saying?

Oh, yeah: Thing is, in my business, my dears, the clients develop a mad desire to sue you left and right. So, I’d say that, around the time I met Judy, I needed a good lawyer on board, — preferably one I’d be bonking.

And that scar! Judy with the long long scar. It marks her as mine. I made her what she is, afterall: I introduced her to The Cat Walk, gave her a high-paying job AND a magnificent new body. That scar is my brand: and she wears it well.

This garage is really looking shabby. I’ll tell Leo. Hardy here can wipe up now and then, can’t he? I hate handing him my lovely keys, putting them, all shiny and precious, into his giant hand, all putty and grease. Bet he never ran a day in his life. Bet he eats donuts.

See now, the Cat Walk pays off in spades, my friends: and really, it’s an altruistic enterprise. Look at ol’ Hardy back there: all eats and no drive. Adherents to the Cat Walk’s rigorous demands find it indispensable for blasting away the fat ugly haze which life usually wraps us in: actors, models, sales technicians, fund-raisers and art dealers – all find that my Cat Walk has enhanced their careers far beyond their expectations. These days, here in L.A. no public face with any pride at all can do without it.

Now what made Hetty put that planter here? ‘Er: or what’s ‘her name? What the hell is the new intern’s name? Why can’t I remember her at all. I can’t even picture her. Refuses to run. Imagine. Getting up into her twenties and doing nothing – NOTHING – about it!

Thing is: it’d fix her right up nice for the hard  years to come. Hard ones. Getting up through the twenties — up up into the thirties. Gotta get hard. Stay lovely… like Judy. Judy’s twenty seven now. Jesus. Gotta get her something. She should stop having birthdays. Cut that shit out.

Pensa is at the front looking befuddled. I’ll leave him to it. My office is better for our little chat anyway. So, where was I? Wait: I’ll just take some of this:

“Good morning, Pense. Got something for me? You were looking a bit too thoughtful there.”

“Um: well. Here, you take this. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Okay, dude.”

Okay: so. Where were we?. Oh, yeah: twenty SEVEN. But LOOK at her. Body of supple and simple youth. The Cat Walk is better than surgery for keeping it all up above the force of gravity. Look at ME: THIRTY, I hate to say. No. Really. I know. It’s unbelievable. But that’s the Cat Walk, for you!

I know all you flabby, decaedeants in New York think this is just some wacky L.A. trend which will pass, the way the starvation diet did. But you’ve no idea. NO idea. In your cozy cafes, balancing your huge indulgent, cappaccino mugs on your dime-sized tables, watching helpessly as all the smoking zombies block the exits with a wall of slow death. No. You have no idea what if feeeels like!  The lungs full of REAL AIR, legs and arms flailing wildly in the open space. What would you know about that? — You, with your pointless trainers balanced in slippery defiance on the greasy pole of a screaming subway train…

My  desk is a WASTEland for paperwork. There is NOTHING on it but my feet. HA! Now, what’s this thing that Pensa was scratching his head over. Wha? What’s THIS? Nah…

I buzz Pensa: “Dude. This is MADness!”

— “Yeah.”

— “Madness.”

Okay. So folks? I’ve got my tanning shower at 1:00, and then I have to meet with this client here, who’s claiming — LOOK, it says so RIGHT HERE! – MUCH to my dismay.. CLAIMING that The Cat Walk is “not as challenging” as we’d promised. Impossible of course; she’s just jumping through the loopholes like a trained dolphin, trying to get out of her membership without going bankrupt paying the strategically impossible cut off fee. Maybe she just can’t cut it. Many can’t.

And then: after I see this wonder woman who is not challenged by the exercise routine favored by super models and body builders, Then I have to pick up Judy and we go to visit her sister in hospital. Judy’s sister has spina bifida: think you can handle that? Sometimes I think I can’t.

On my way to The Sun Roof, I eat half a head of broccoli. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m starved. Anyway, I should be good and hungry for my carbo-load tomorrow morning. That’s the only way to really prepare for a third-level Cat Walk.

The Sun Roof, by the way, has provided me with a sweet golden complexion lovelier than any I’ve ever attained before. I think I tried everything before this came along. I remember “tanning” on the beaches as a naïve and helpless child, laid out like a strip of bacon on my Superman beach blanket, blinking, naked and tender until I turned a sufficient shade of red. Later on I graduated to the tanning beds. Then, somewhere in the early years of my modeling career, I even tried the beach again – only this time armed with a tanning coach. She sold her own products, all of them containing the usual […] but with added ingredients like fruit extracts and nut oils — very nearly edible. But my tan still lacked that  — I don’t know – sweetness? I went back to tanning beds for a while until I discovered the “Hollywood” tan. At first the results of that shower of […] thrilled. But compared with the airbrushed smoothness of my Sunroof tan, they were nothing. Yes, the Sun Roof is a  “Hollywood” tan – but somehow they managed a color formula – I don’t know what it is. And it smells good. What’s more, the tanner acts as a cat-repellent. It makes my cat walks sessions easier when I arrange them near my tanning: that way I get a bit of a break. But only slight – the cat will still chase, after all, we DO keep them good and hungry.

Despite what this mad woman is claiming. Probably just wants out of the contract. Wimp. Little girl. Maybe I can set her straight. Maybe she’s hot. Maybe I can coach her.

As I exit the Sun Roof, sniffing my sweet brown wrists, I think I should maybe mention this cat repellent effect to SuperChick: maybe she’s using some sort of scent? Maybe what she needs is a higher level. Maybe I’m the man to bring her to a higher level.

When I brainstormed The Cat Walk, I’d imagined that only women – and me – would even think of going through such a thing. After all, women will suffer greatly for beauty and men, usually not at all. Even here in L.A. I never imagined that our facilities would expand so rapidly, moving me to purchase the L.A. Zoo in order to set up a enough courses to accommodate my growing clientel. Who knew so many people would subscribe to being hunted by big cats– just to get beautiful?

The L.A. Zoo provides  […] miles which I’ve broken down into 8 –12 mile courses. Most Cat Walks will take you through only one course. My clients usually take 1-2 hours to complete their courses.

I’d started out with a circlular course, which ran around and through the […] arena. I expanded, later to […], and […]. These smaller courses are still functional, but mainly as training venues. I’ve dubbed them “training annexes”, an abuse of the language – yeah.

When I get back, it’s still on my desk: her complaint form and request for a refund. I hadn’t noticed it before I left, but her name, as written on the form, is ‘O”.

I push the intercom:

  • “Just “O’?”
  • “Just.”

I stare at the form and push the intercom button again:

  • “Um.”
  • “Yes?”
  • “Pensa: this says. She says our cats are slow? and seem distracted?”
  • “Yep.”
  • “… eh, Pen? Have we? Eh. Can you come in here?”

I haven’t removed my finger from the button yet when Pensa shows up in my doorway. He’s made good use of our training annex at the stadium and is looking really good. His hair – Oh, nevermind…

  • “Pensa: are we perhaps FEEDING them too much? I mean, can this be legit?”

 I shove the forms at him. He doesn’t even look at them. The answer is NO he says, to all of my questions: are they too old? No. Ill? ‘Course not. Inbred? Jesus. No. No. No: he’s seen to all that. Yes: he’s followed all the instructions. The very finest experts are caring for the beasts.

  • “What CAN it BE, then? Pensa? Did you meet with this—er – O?”

No, he just took her complaint over the phone.

  • “Okay. Alright then. We’ll see what she’s up to.”
  • “Mark?”
  • “What?”
  • “I gotta say, she sounded like she meant it.”
  • “Yes. Well. She’s late.”

At 1:21, Peans’s voice, clearly shaken, comes over the intercom:

— “She’s. Here.”

— “Send her in!”

I was prepared to stand and greet her with a firm handshake, but her appearance has knocked me back down into my chair.

Where do I begin?

To say she’s tall would be idoitotic. I’ll bet she’s 6’2”. If I say her hair is red, I would fail to hint at the crackling fire of it. Could I say her eyes are green and leave it at that without going on and on trying to capture the gemlike depth of them? And her figure — no. Not like anything you’ve ever seen outside of the funny papers.

Perfect? How lame. Beautiful? A doltish word sufficient for flattering mortal women.

No: she stood there shocking and impossible as a barefaced lie, and I? I couldn’t remember my friggin’ name.

+++++++++END OF EDITS +++++++++++++++++

This next part is all in past tense? Re-think that. It sounds good in past tense but there’s no apparent reason for the switch. Above the shock throws him into past tense, but maintaining that too long will cause a problem.

Cut the next part out and try it in a separate doc in the present tense…

Thinking that perhaps the prozac had been a mistake, I gathered myself and stood up again. I stuck out my pitiful hairy hand which, I suddenly noticed, needed a manicure:

  • “Me –eh- Mark. Um”
  • “O. Pleased to meet you Mr. Markum”

I forgot to let go of her hand as I flopped back into my really too cushy chair. She laughed at me like the thrill of thunder miles away, her smile a baracade of stunning white.

I looked at it.

  • “Well, then, er, Mr. Markum? Is it?”
  • “Oh. Uh, yes: I mean. No. Aha! Sorry. Mark. Mark uh, Mark Preti.”
  • “Well, Mr. Preti. As you can see, my request is more than fair. I’m not satisfied with the workouts so far and I’d like my money back for the rest of the year.”

I looked at her arms. Her impossible shoulders.

— “Um.”

  • “That’s only for more months, really. Not much at all, but I just want to make sure I’m being fair, Mr. Mark — uh, Preti.”

I looked at her neck and her earlobes —and her jawline! I turned away as from the sun.

— “Listen. I think we can both LEARN from this. O?”

She looked at me. My soul writhed in my stomach like a worm.

  • “Let’s just FREEZE your account while I look into things. I mean, you can’t — it can’t BE that you imagine you’ll find something more chanllengeing out there. I mean. I KNOW. I KNOW this is it.”

She looked at me. I looked away.

  • “I KNOW it.”
  • “Well, I DID come here because the other alternatives were boring and I wasn’t getting anywhere. You know? I wasn’t IMPROVING.”

Jesus.

  • “Yes. That’s why I started The Cat Walk. It’s for those who need the challenge; it’s for people who won’t settle for less than perfect. I. I set this whole thing up in order to get into the best shape possible. And it worked. It worked for me and it works for most of my clients.”
  • “Mmm. But not for me.”

I started pacing. If I didn’t look at her, I was able to get pissed off. And, you see, that’s what I needed.

  • “Right. I don’t understand it! I get a great workout from level three. “
  • “Mr. Marcus: I’m not you.”

I looked at her. Her legs. Impossible. Manicured toes. Maddening. Not me!

  • “I see. Well. Let’s do it this way. Let’s take a look at some of the security tapes of your sessions. That way I’ll be able to see how to make things more challenging for you.”
  • “Oh. Okay. But I don’t pay. Right?”
  • “No: like I said. We freeze your memebership. But you go on with your sessions.”
  • “Nice. Okay!”

Her joy bugged me.

  • And perhaps you’ll let me observe, at some point?
  • How?
  • Tower. Binocculars.
  • You DO that?
  • No. But we — I can.
  • All right then!

And with that she sprang up and I struggled to my feet and she squeezed the shit out of my pudgy unkempt hand and jounced out on 4 inch tiger print high heels.

I waited a minute befor e I pushed the intercom:

  • Ow.

Pensa laughed.

On the way home, picturing her in my head, I denied repeatedly that she was perfect.

And anyway, I told myself, as a kind of punctuation between denials, anyway, I’ll find out what the problem is. Probably some scheduling thing — some. Bad. Cat. Time-slot. Something…

I was home before for I knew and I headed immediately for the bathroom (best) mirror. Old. Old .Old. And what’s? This? No. I took my clothes off. Fat. Fat. Fat. How could I have been putting on so much weight and not know it. Slob. I weighed myself. Not a pound over the ideal. Ideal? Had I been fooling myself? Lazy. Slow, fat, old, lazy.

I looked at the clock. I had to go pick up Judy. God. I had to go pick up Judy and go to the hosp — and all I wanted to do was… get this over with…

Judy, unfortunately, was in lively form, smiling wide as a watermelon and bragging away about her Cat Walk. We do alternating days. That way weare free to talk about our sessonj without the other chiming in with their own experiences. She’d had a particularly tough session and came out with just a jammed finger and a scratched elbow.

Come to think of it. These days she was rarely without a scab here or there. A sore spot, a bandage. Her radience bugged me. I told her I was having a fat day, hoping that would calm her down — throw some dust in her fire, butshe said I’d feel skinny for sure tomorrow and showed me her really too pale and rather, I realized now, short-waisted middle. I looked around, embarrassed.

—You need The Sun Roof.

More dust, a wet blanket, a fireman’s dose of spouting cold water…

  • Jeez. [She fairly boomed!] You ARE touchy tonight!
  • Yeah. Sorry. Rough day.

That was a mistake. When something gets under your deepest skin, you NEVER EVER SPEAK of it. Never. Don’t do it. Tempted to sek comfort? Don’t. What rankles will just get “discussed”  until you feel like exploding. So clam up.

  • Oh yeah. That woman, right? Ho’wd that go? She just wimping out like you said
  • Nope. I’ll deal with it: small matter of poiciy, I suspect. Stay on top of those cast. Some getting slow.
  • Oh, really? I sure never got a slow one! You?
  • Well….
  • Get out! You come ouf these things almost as torn up as I do and you’ve been at it much longer! [Booming. Booming!]

I took a deep deep breath.

—Judy. I schedule custom-organized level three courses. And I have. I have had some lately that seemed too easy.

She looked at me.

—Kay?

—Oh. KAY. Jees [I hate it when she says ‘jees’]

Finally, anyway, her fire was out. A long silence thickened the summer heat in the car. I pictured a bug in amber, the forlorn legs, the bubbles in the orange moment: trapped.

  • Wonder if I’m a wimp. I NEVER find it easy. It nearly kills me. Every time.

She looked so deflated. So small. Her scar. I’m a bastard. That’s for suire. I’m a lying phoney mean old bastard.

—Judy, don’t take everything so personally. Like it’s a competition. It’s an exercise program, remember? Don’t you look better than you ever did?

  • Well, except for the scar.
  • I love your fucking scar. Can we stop this now?
  • Yeah.
  • GodDAM it!

I punched the steering wheel; We were stuck. I punched the steering wheel.

  • GodDAM it!
  • Stop- it. So what? Just wait.

And so on. All the way to the hospital.

[… visit… physical VS mental … he competes?… can’t believe it… she sedated…Judy amazed at his behaviour…]

When you have a cat walk, you MUSt get a really good sleep. I knew that this would be near impossible without a lot of pampering. But how can you pamper yourself without sweets or drugs or alcohol, all no-no’s before a walk.

My therapist, is very often full of crap. But he’d supllied me with a method which works for me: talking to myself. For real. Hey: I’m very articulate. I’ve got that going for me. That, at least. So.

Okay: my therapist? He’s not. He’s a “philosophical counceler” okay?  That means he uses philosophy as a touchstone for helping me to address my issues. I’ve come a long way, you know. I’ve come a very long way considering…oh well: later for the difficult childhood thing. Let’s just say, I’m no slouch when it comes to self improvement. I found this guy, and he’s full of shit a lot of the time, but he knows how to harness my energy, and I respect that.

Well he told me once about Wittgenstien. Wittgenstien says to his students, one of them, my therapist,What does it mean when we say we talk to ourselves?  Is that like speaking in a whisper? Is that like writing without a pencil?  What happens when we are said to be speaking to ourselves? Do we inform ourselves of things we did not know? Exchange information? Or was it a kind of role-playing. A game? You talk to yourself: take the role of one mind and pretend to receive it’s wisdome. It’s a game to remind you, in an authrative voice, of what you already know.

I told myself that I that I had come a long way. I enumerated my accomplishments. I stressed the unique skills and the strength it took to do what I’ve done. To climb out of my middle class heritage, break out of my shell and kick ass in a highly competitive field where everything, personality, phiysical beauty, and savoir fare, all matter…and then to have an idea for a whole new product, and to start, based on that, a whole new business. From the bottom and despite a lot of…

I enumerated my good qualities and recalled my good deeds. I rmemerd my Jr year college paper on Carl Popper and deemed myself a genious.

With one eyebrow lifted I looked squarely in the mirror and remarked upon th eiron of the current situation. That I should be reduced to tears by.

I told myself that I need not compare. No. I told myself that it wasn’t a competition. Wasn’t I in better shape than ever? Hadn’t I reached the highest level? No.

Why aren’t you good enough? I asked myself. Why can’t you just let be? Why do you have to torture yourself? I asked.

It was getting late and I’d made no headway. My therapist is really just an idiot like any other person. I bet he likes children. I bet he eats candy bars and farts too much.

I climbed into bed. My bed. My impeccable bed. My sheets. 100% silk [threadcount?]

Things balance out, I told myself, finally. Could she handel your mother? Could she suffer the slings and arrows of high fashion? Could she start a business and expand it to three times it’s size in the space of two years? Could she discuss philosophy with a student of Wittgenstein?

By the time I settled into my dreamsaver ergonomic pillow, I should hve been convinced. I should have felt that I was a decadent enough human specimen that I could go on living and even sleep a little. I should have. But I didn’t.

I saw her when I closed my eyes. She’s outracing a tiger now. She’s. I’m the director. I tell her she must fight the tiger. She’s frightened. Don’t worry; I’ll be there for you, I tell her. She looks up into my — she looks down, into my. I saw her laughing, her teeth. I saw her running, her ass. She’s kicking me. I. She’s a robot.

I sat up. It was 2:00. I would die tomorrow with that goddam cat. God.Damn. It.

This would be the worst Cat Walk ever. I considered my options. I’d bring the taming kit. I’d bring that damned mask. I hadn’t used that mask since level 2, one and one half years ago.

I remembered all the intimidating people I’d ever been tortured by. That New Year’s Eve party. So unfair. Ingrid had been dieting; she’d been unemployed and had way too much time on her hands. She’d been at the gym nearly SIX hours a day. She looked so good. I kept saying it all night: Look at Ingrid. That’s what six hours a day will do for you! But I could tell that everyone was impressed anyway: that she looked good and I looked fat. And Jimmy. Jimmy Six. What did he say? The bastard; always shut you  out of the conversations about politics. He and Ingrid were so sickiening that night… I remember what she said.

I sat up.

I got up and tried on this pair of jeans. They were haunting me. Had they been that tight when I bought them. No way. I wouldn’t have.

I took a very long hot shower. Throbbing and exhausted, I fell onto the bed. I could feel my heart in my stomach. I didn’t deserve to live. So I slept.

I woke, at first, grateful to have slept so soundly, almost happy. Until I realized I’d slept through the alarm! Sloth. Bungler[CW1] .

Now I’d definitely get hurt. And I’d have to prepare a wimp package.

[describe wimp package: lion taming tools and backward mask] The mask is worn “backward” as it were — a face which one wears on the back of one’s head. You see, tigers prefer to attack from behnd, grabbing their prey by the back of theneck and severing the spine. The mask puts them off, buys time. But that means reducing the challenge.

But, with my bad night, and my current anxious rush, I could not do without the wimp pack.

[Insert first Cat Walk – he finds it rough, but takes heart; talks himself out of reviewing it, out of admitting that he’d relied heavily on the wimp pack}

]transition…]

We’ve just watched O’s Cat Walk. It’s a stunner all right. I sigh while Pensa wipes his eyes.

  • Did she?

I waited. Was he going to say something helpful or just say what I didn’t want to hear?

  • Did she?
  • Kill our cat, Pensa? Yes.
  • She. She KILLED our FUKing CAT.
  • Sigh
  • With a knife and a fucking stick.

I look out the window.

  • Gene?
  • What?
  • I agree. Nevermind.

Tom’s our resident spin doctor. Our PR man. Our advertising department. I regret having him in this meeting. What’ the hell is he supposed to do with this new information?

And in my half-sleep, and in my dreems, the replay:

Close up: O’s face, teeth clenched, eyebrows crowding the tiny bridge of her  perfect nose; behind her head we pan out to reveal the bounding cat.

As she springs, we see she’s hold ing her knife an a stick. (We also notice her astounding outfit! The leather bousier , the t bullet-proof mini, the boots laced high above the knee!)

As the cat lands from the pounce, O jams a stick, sideways into it’s jaws and simutanously plunges the knife into the cat’s neck…

I sit up and turn the lifht on: it’s three o’clock.  I’ve re-wound and re-played this scene six times already , using many different camera angles. I have a headach. Again.

Is a criplling headache a reason to hate yourself? What about three? Let me tell you, chronic headaces have made my Cat Walks into hell. And in order to compensate, I’ve had to wimp out and reduced my challenge. I’ve become secretive… covering my failure… I’m a flabby weak soser lowlife with no discipline. I bet SHE never quties, never wimps, NEVER HAS A HEADACHE….

In the kitchen, fixin coffee, I’m thinking about it again. O running. O climbing. O jumping… O: killing my cat. Galling. Galling. Bitter bitter coffee.

On video, O is small and vulnerable as she leaes the station house on course 47. The camer near the exit was not working, so the image of her at the threshold, shouldering her pack an dshielding her eyes si tiny, captured from the observation deck some [—- yds] from the station house.

She comes across as human. I sure we all took heart…

But then the camer’s hold as she approaches, her stride swift and sturdy. My god how on her way she is, squinting with a look of determination almost directly into the lens. Her momentous close-up as she stops right there to choose her first strategy. It’s 1A:00 on the dot.

She stands, red hair blowing, a re-nailed hand to her eyes, her razor perfect featurese sudden and startling in their clarity as some clouds move off the sun, lighting her up.

The best way to do your cat walk is to move quickly, but to avoid exhaution and to keep the cat visible – even if that means remaining visible yourself.

Some choose to stay high,, electing to move through trees and other assembled ladeers and platforms, ropes and wall. This makes for a very aearobic walk w/lowered cat risk.

Some choose to stay low and open, moveing very swiftly but prepared to fight an to excape. This has a higer cat rist, but takes far less time. It is as aerobically challeniging as you make it by moving as quickly as possible while staying aware and ready to fight.

Some choose the more natural methods: move swiftly in the visible plain, but hug the heights in order to keep escape at ahand – or keeping near the escape hatches and barricades – they plot and plan more.

Despit course 47’s lavish heights and escapes options, O chose open ground and started out at a run. She made great time, running the three miles from the station to the water ing hold. There, she climbed a tree and took some water and ate something. It was 1:10.

At 1:18, she switched tactics, running from the tree to the hight obstacles. Ladder swing and rope swins for  [?’] yards, and then treee to tree for another mile and a half. By then she was well in danger, but discouragingly high most of the time.

She came down at 1: 45 and made a dash for eht long wall.

The long wall runs from the 4.5 mile mark to the NW edge of the 47th course; about three miles O started at a jog hugging the wall, stopping at moments to listn to the air behind her and over the wall.

After a half mile, she began to climb. You should, exposed as you ae, make very sure that the tiger is not readying itself for the dash. You will be vulnerableuntil you hit the ledge.

O started her climb with a knife in her teeth and climbed with her back to the wall. Yes. She did. Slowly, slowly. She reached the ledge without incident nd swiftly hoisted herself to the top of the wall.

We watched as she ran along the narrow edge for the next 2.5 miles. Honest. Weh she stopped to scant he area, we saw that she and runthe tightrope at nearly a mile per minute and one quarter. It wa now 2: 06 and O had only to make it one mile east tot he exit.

Two yards eahead lay a safty exit tunnel; she dashed to it, an stopped at the hatch. Taking the tunnel would not be easy; they were rigged with complex obtakes intended as a penalty. They took minutes, even quarter hours off your tme.

O scanne the area nd began an even quiet walktoward the exit, pausing now and again to piruette and to listen.

The at bounded over the wallat 2:08. O did not see ti in her sweep. But at 2:08.1, she suddenly turned. And that’s when she killed our cat.


 [CW1]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s