A Tale from Castle IGORITHMS

One Lazy Cat. One Professional Hitman. Twelve Percent of the Ponzistein.

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Chapter One: The Great Cookie Massacre

There were many things MONSTER 1.0 could tolerate.

Lightning strikes.

Exploding laboratories.

Dr. Samuel Altmanstein’s scientific experiments.

Even the occasional romantic rejection.

After the disaster of Igor’s Love Potion No. 9½, MONSTER 1.0 had learned that love was unpredictable, women were complicated, and cookies were considerably more dependable.

But there was one thing he could not tolerate.

Someone stealing his cookies.

And someone had stolen his cookies.

Not one cookie.

Not two cookies.

ALL OF HIS COOKIES.

The enormous green creature stood in the castle pantry, staring at an empty shelf.

His lower lip trembled.

“MONSTER. WANT. COOKIE.”

Abby Normal appeared in the doorway.

“What’s wrong, big fellow?”

“COOKIES. GONE.”

“Maybe Igor ate them.”

“IGOR. NOT. EAT. COOKIES.”

“How do you know?”

“IGOR. EAT. BAT.”

Abby considered this.

“Fair point.”

She examined the pantry.

Crumbs littered the floor. Several sacks of flour had been torn open. Tiny footprints crossed the shelves.

And beneath the bottom cabinet was a freshly gnawed hole.

Abby crouched.

“Oh, dear.”

“WHAT. IS. DEAR?”

“Monster, I think you’ve got rats.”

MONSTER 1.0 stared at her.

“RATS?”

“Yes.”

“RATS. EAT. COOKIES?”

“Apparently.”

The monster’s eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

Then glowed an alarming shade of red.

“MONSTER. DECLARE. WAR.”

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Chapter Two: The Rat Whisperer

Dr. Altmanstein arrived carrying a clipboard, a magnifying glass, and a device resembling a vacuum cleaner attached to a trumpet.

“WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY?”

Abby pointed toward the hole.

“Rats, Doctor.”

“RATS?”

“Yes. The castle has rats.”

“IMPOSSIBLE! THIS CASTLE IS A STATE-OF-THE-ART SCIENTIFIC FACILITY!”

A rat emerged from the hole.

It paused.

Looked at the Doctor.

And stole a biscuit from his coat pocket.

Abby smiled.

“State of the art, Doctor.”

“IGOR!”

Igor hurried into the pantry.

“Yeth, Mathter?”

“WHY DO WE HAVE RATS?”

“Well, Mathter, it ith an old cathle.”

“AND?”

“Old cathles have ratth.”

“THEN WHY HAVEN’T YOU DONE SOMETHING ABOUT THEM?”

“I thought they were guethts.”

The Doctor stared at him.

“YOU THOUGHT THE RATS WERE GUESTS?”

“They’ve been eating in the kitchen for weekth.”

Abby folded her arms.

“Doctor, we have a cat.”

Everyone turned toward Mr. Whiskers.

The elderly feline was asleep on a velvet cushion beside the fireplace.

“OF COURSE!” shouted Altmanstein. “THE NATURAL ENEMY OF THE RODENT!”

Igor picked up the cat.

Mr. Whiskers opened one eye.

“Meow.”

“BEHOLD!” declared the Doctor. “OUR SOLUTION!”

Igor placed Mr. Whiskers in front of the rat hole.

A large rat emerged.

Mr. Whiskers stared at it.

The rat stared at Mr. Whiskers.

Then the rat walked directly over the cat’s tail and disappeared beneath the refrigerator.

Mr. Whiskers went back to sleep.

Abby sighed.

“Doctor, I believe your solution has surrendered.”

“NOT SURRENDERED, ABBY! HE SIMPLY LACKS AGGRESSION!”

The Doctor’s eyes brightened.

“AND I KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO FIX THAT!”

Abby closed hers.

“Of course you do.”

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Chapter Three: F.A.N.G. Boot Camp

The following morning, Dr. Altmanstein announced the establishment of the castle’s first military training facility.

F.A.N.G. FELINE COMBAT ACADEMY

Its mission was simple.

Transform Mr. Whiskers from a harmless elderly house cat into the most terrifying rodent exterminator in the history of civilization.

The training instructor was F.A.N.G., the castle’s carnivorous botanical experiment.

Igor served as assistant drill instructor.

He wore an oversized military campaign hat, combat boots, and a whistle.

“ATTENSHUN, RECRUIT!”

Mr. Whiskers sat down.

“THAT ITH NOT ATTENSHUN!”

Mr. Whiskers scratched his ear.

F.A.N.G. snapped its enormous jaws.

Mr. Whiskers yawned.

“DOCTOR!” shouted Igor. “HE WON’T FOLLOW ORDERTH!”

“THEN MOTIVATE HIM!”

Igor placed a saucer of milk at the far end of an obstacle course.

The course featured swinging vines, thorn-covered barricades, muddy trenches, and a tunnel constructed from discarded laboratory equipment.

“FORWARD, MARCH!”

Mr. Whiskers walked three feet.

Stopped.

Turned around.

And climbed into Igor’s campaign hat.

Abby watched from the greenhouse doorway.

“Well, he’s conquered the hat.”

“THIS IS ONLY DAY ONE!” declared the Doctor.

On Day Two, F.A.N.G. attempted ambush training.

The enormous plant lunged from behind a barrel.

Mr. Whiskers leaped backward, landed on Igor’s head, and dug all four paws into his scalp.

“AAAAAAAH! GET HIM OFF!”

Abby took notes.

“Excellent defensive maneuver. Wrong target.”

On Day Three, they attempted aggression training.

F.A.N.G. roared.

Mr. Whiskers hissed.

Igor cheered.

“HE’S LEARNING!”

Then the cat fled beneath a workbench and refused to emerge for six hours.

By Day Four, F.A.N.G. had lost seven leaves, three tendrils, and most of its enthusiasm.

Igor had seventeen scratches.

Dr. Altmanstein had spent forty thousand dollars.

Considering the castle’s previous technological difficulties in Igor Calls Technical Support: Please Hold for Eternity, spending forty thousand dollars to teach an elderly cat to chase rats was practically a bargain by Institute standards.

And Mr. Whiskers had learned absolutely nothing.

“IMPOSSIBLE!” thundered the Doctor. “EVERY LIVING CREATURE HAS A KILLER INSTINCT!”

Abby looked at the sleeping cat.

“Apparently his is on permanent vacation.”

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Chapter Four: The Professional Referral

That evening, Mr. Whiskers slipped quietly into the greenhouse.

F.A.N.G. was recovering from the day’s training.

Its enormous jaws hung open. Several leaves were wrapped in bandages.

The cat approached cautiously.

“Meow.”

F.A.N.G. opened one eye.

“YOU AGAIN?”

Mr. Whiskers sat down.

“Meow.”

“NO. MORE. TRAINING.”

The cat tilted his head.

F.A.N.G. considered him.

“YOU DON’T WANT TO FIGHT THE RATS.”

“Meow.”

“BUT YOU WANT THEM GONE.”

“Meow.”

F.A.N.G. slowly smiled.

Or at least performed the botanical equivalent.

“THEN YOU NEED A PROFESSIONAL.”

From beneath a pile of discarded garden equipment came a metallic voice.

“HE NEEDS A SPECIALIST.”

The Weedinator stepped into the moonlight.

Its chrome-plated body gleamed. Its mechanical arms ended in rotating blades, pruning shears, and an industrial weed trimmer.

“VEGETATION IS MY BUSINESS.”

Mr. Whiskers blinked.

“RODENTS ARE NOT.”

The Weedinator reached into a compartment in its chest and produced a black business card.

“BUT I KNOW SOMEONE.”

Printed in silver letters were three words.

THE RATINATOR

Below them:

I’LL BE BACK. THEY WON’T.

Mr. Whiskers studied the card.

“Meow.”

“HE’S EXPENSIVE.”

“Meow.”

“AND HE DOESN’T ACCEPT CATNIP.”

Mr. Whiskers looked disappointed.

“BUT HE DOES ACCEPT EQUITY.”

The cat’s ears perked up.

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Chapter Five: A Deal in the Dark

At precisely midnight, a shadow appeared beneath the castle’s basement staircase.

It was tall.

Mechanical.

And extremely unpleasant-looking.

Two glowing red eyes surveyed the darkness.

Heavy steel boots struck the stone floor.

A long black coat concealed an assortment of devices that were probably illegal in seventeen countries.

The Ratinator had arrived.

Mr. Whiskers waited beside an overturned crate.

The Weedinator stood nearby.

“THIS IS THE CLIENT.”

The Ratinator looked down.

“A CAT?”

“THE CAT.”

“YOU’RE KIDDING.”

Mr. Whiskers stared back.

“Meow.”

The Ratinator considered him.

“ALL RIGHT. WHAT’S THE JOB?”

Mr. Whiskers pointed one paw toward the pantry.

The Ratinator examined the gnawed doorway, the scattered crumbs, and the maze of tunnels beneath the floorboards.

“RODENT INFESTATION.”

“Meow.”

“ORGANIZED?”

“Meow.”

“HOW MANY?”

Mr. Whiskers looked toward the hole.

A dozen pairs of tiny eyes glowed in the darkness.

The Ratinator nodded.

“THIS WILL COST YOU.”

Mr. Whiskers sat patiently.

“NO CASH.”

The cat blinked.

“NO CHECKS.”

Another blink.

“NO CHEESE.”

The cat tilted his head.

“I WANT A PIECE OF THE PONZISTEIN.”

Mr. Whiskers froze.

The Ratinator folded his mechanical arms.

“FIFTEEN PERCENT.”

“MEOW!”

“TEN PERCENT.”

Mr. Whiskers extended a paw.

“TWELVE. FINAL OFFER.”

The cat considered this.

Then placed his paw in the Ratinator’s enormous steel hand.

The deal was done.

The Weedinator produced a contract.

Mr. Whiskers signed with an inked paw print.

Neither party appeared particularly concerned that the cat did not actually own any portion of the Ponzistein.

“ONE MORE CONDITION,” said the Ratinator.

Mr. Whiskers looked up.

“YOU TAKE THE CREDIT.”

The cat smiled.

Or at least looked slightly less bored.

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Chapter Six: Operation Cookie Jar

The following morning, the castle awoke to a remarkable discovery.

The pantry was quiet.

The flour sacks were untouched.

The cookie jar was full.

Fortunately, nobody had asked Igor to replenish the cookie supply. His earlier expedition in Igor Goes Shopping: The De-Feet Department had established that sending him into town for ordinary household supplies was an adventure best avoided.

And Mr. Whiskers sat proudly beside the rat hole.

Dr. Altmanstein burst into the kitchen.

“IGOR! ABBY! COME QUICKLY!”

Abby arrived carrying coffee.

“What now, Doctor?”

“LOOK!”

She looked.

“At what?”

“THE CAT!”

Mr. Whiskers washed his face.

“HE HAS DEFEATED THE RODENTS!”

Abby examined the pantry.

“Doctor, how do you know?”

“BECAUSE THERE ARE NO RATS!”

“Perhaps they’ve gone on vacation.”

“NONSENSE! MY TRAINING PROGRAM WORKED!”

Igor rushed in wearing his campaign hat.

“THALUTE THE HERO!”

He saluted.

Mr. Whiskers ignored him.

MONSTER 1.0 entered the pantry.

He opened the cookie jar.

His enormous face lit up.

“COOKIES!”

He embraced Mr. Whiskers.

“GOOD. KITTY.”

The cat endured the affection with the expression of a retired accountant being hugged by a gorilla.

Meanwhile, deep beneath the castle, the Ratinator completed his assignment.

No explosions.

No screaming.

No witnesses.

Just a network of sealed tunnels, dismantled rat nests, and a handwritten notice:

RODENTS: PREMISES CLOSED PERMANENTLY.

The Ratinator returned to the basement staircase.

Mr. Whiskers was waiting.

“JOB COMPLETE.”

“Meow.”

“PAYMENT DUE.”

The cat nodded toward the signed contract.

The Ratinator examined the paw print.

“PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS.”

Then vanished into the darkness.

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Chapter Seven: The Hero of Castle IGORITHMS

Dr. Altmanstein insisted upon a formal ceremony.

The entire castle assembled in the great hall.

F.A.N.G. was wheeled in from the greenhouse, still wearing bandages.

The Weedinator stood near the door.

Igor played a military march on a trumpet.

Badly.

MONSTER 1.0 carried a tray of cookies.

And Mr. Whiskers sat on a velvet cushion beneath a banner reading:

HERO OF THE CASTLE

Dr. Altmanstein approached the podium.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

Abby raised her hand.

“Doctor, there are only five of us.”

“THEN I SHALL SPEAK LOUDER!”

He cleared his throat.

“TODAY WE CELEBRATE A TRIUMPH OF SCIENCE!”

F.A.N.G. groaned.

“THROUGH DISCIPLINE, TRAINING, AND MY BRILLIANT UNDERSTANDING OF FELINE AGGRESSION, WE HAVE TRANSFORMED AN ORDINARY HOUSE CAT INTO A FEARLESS RODENT EXTERMINATOR!”

Mr. Whiskers licked his paw.

“BEHOLD! THE GREATEST FELINE WARRIOR IN HISTORY!”

Igor pinned a tiny gold medal to the cat’s collar.

“Congratulationth, Thergeant Whithkerth!”

MONSTER 1.0 offered him a cookie.

“GOOD. KITTY.”

Mr. Whiskers sniffed it.

Then pushed it off the cushion.

Abby folded her arms.

“Doctor, yesterday this cat was frightened by a cucumber.”

“THAT WAS BEFORE HIS TRAINING!”

“And today?”

“TODAY HE IS A KILLING MACHINE!”

Mr. Whiskers rolled onto his back and fell asleep.

Abby sighed.

“Terrifying.”

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Epilogue: The Price of Victory

Three days later, Abby was reviewing the castle’s financial records when she discovered something unusual.

A document had been filed under:

PONZISTEIN — EQUITY TRANSFER AGREEMENT

She opened it.

Read the first paragraph.

Then the second.

Then the signature page.

Her eyes widened.

“DOCTOR!”

Dr. Altmanstein appeared wearing a laboratory coat covered in scorch marks.

“WHAT NOW, ABBY?”

“Did you authorize the transfer of twelve percent of the Ponzistein?”

“WHAT?! ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

“Apparently Mr. Whiskers did.”

The Doctor stared at her.

“HE’S A CAT!”

“Yes.”

“A CAT CANNOT SELL EQUITY!”

“Apparently nobody explained that to him.”

“WHO BOUGHT IT?”

Abby studied the document.

“An individual identified only as the Ratinator.”

“THE WHATINATOR?”

“The Ratinator.”

“WHO IS THAT?”

“According to this contract, he’s a professional rodent exterminator.”

The Doctor’s mouth fell open.

Abby continued.

“And apparently he was responsible for removing the rats.”

Silence.

“THEN WHAT DID MR. WHISKERS DO?”

“Negotiated the contract.”

“BUT MY TRAINING PROGRAM!”

“Didn’t work.”

“F.A.N.G. BOOT CAMP!”

“Didn’t work.”

“MY FELINE COMBAT ACADEMY!”

“Didn’t work.”

Dr. Altmanstein turned slowly toward the fireplace.

Mr. Whiskers was asleep on his cushion.

“YOU LITTLE FRAUD!”

The cat opened one eye.

“Meow.”

“YOU STOLE TWELVE PERCENT OF MY PONZISTEIN!”

Abby examined the contract again.

“Actually, Doctor, there’s one more problem.”

“WHAT?”

“The agreement includes a management fee.”

“HOW MUCH?”

“Two percent annually.”

“FOR WHAT?!”

“Consulting.”

“CONSULTING?!”

“Apparently Mr. Whiskers is now the Ratinator’s business partner.”

Dr. Altmanstein staggered backward.

“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!”

Igor entered carrying a saucer of milk.

“What’s wrong, Mathter?”

“MY CAT HAS SOLD PART OF THE PONZISTEIN TO A PROFESSIONAL HITMAN!”

Igor smiled.

“Oh, that’th wonderful!”

“WONDERFUL?!”

“Yeth, Mathter. Mr. Whithkerth finally hath a ratirement plan!”

Abby burst out laughing.

The Doctor clutched his forehead.

And from his velvet cushion, Mr. Whiskers opened one eye.

For just a moment, the old cat appeared almost human.

Then he yawned.

Rolled over.

And went back to sleep.

THE END

Castle IGORITHMS — Intelligence Not Guaranteed. Equity Apparently Negotiable.

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