Some History of Samurai Cat

Miaowara Tomokato was one of the few six-foot felines in the service of the sixteenth-century Japanese feudal lord Nobunaga. His battle prowess was such that opposing armies would often destroy themselves in fear and confusion at the very sight of him. Eventually, Nobunaga's enemies waited until Tomokato would be away for a week, then assembled a force unlike any ever seen, attacking and destroying the shogun.

Tomokato swore eternal vengenace on those who had aided the assault; the list included villains from all times and places. Sorcerors, warlords, aliens, Nazis, eldritch horrors, and more were to be tracked down and destroyed.

In the second book of Tomokato's adventures, he confronts the Gods of Mars, Darth Shatner, and the power of the Script - but first he must contend with a bewtiching lady of the Faerie and her murderous son...

All text copyright Mark E. Rogers. No claim is made to his intellectual property.

Upon leaving Asgard and seeing Shiro off, Tomokato turned his attention to the next man on his list: Mordred, a renegade British prince who had led a contingent of Saxon barbarians to the slaying of Nobunaga. Learning that his prey was studying insurgency (Terrorism 305 and Destabilization 406) at Moscow's Patrice Lumumba University, the cat went to the Soviet capital posing as a Comintern representative from sixteenth-century Japan, only to discover that Mordred had already graduated magna cum laude, and was back raising an army in Britain. Having aroused the suspicion of the authorities, Tomokato secretly hitched a ride with a Mongol horde, on their way to an assault on Indiana, and got off at Northumbria, right in the middle of Mordred's territory...

From: Cat Out of Hell, A Biography of Miaowara Tomokato, by William Shirer and A.J.P. Godzilla

On a chill, leaden October day, Arthur, King of the Britons, stood with his closest knights and Merlin his counselor on the outer wall of Camelot, watching a group of armored riders approach through the drear landscape. Above the horsemen streamed a flag of truce, and a red-and-black banner showing a knife buried to the hilt in an innocent-looking back. The foremost rider had his helmet off; recognizing him, Arthur shook his head ruefully.

"I still can't believe he's my son," he muttered.

"If only it were not so, My Lord," said Merlin beside him.

"Looks more like that damn Federal Express man than me," Arthur went on.

"How many times must we go through this, My Lord?" Merlin asked wearily. "The blood test proved you were the one. Why do you think we lost on that paternity rap--"

"Greetings, Father!" called Arthur's son, halting his troop at the foot of the drawbridge.

"Won't you come inside, Mordred?" Arthur cried. "Must we shout at each other?"

"It's better than being caught in a trap," Mordred jeered.

"You know me better than that. I wouldn't break the truce. And besides, if I wanted your life, my Welsh bowmen would have shot you dead a hundred yards from these walls."

Mordred laughed. "Just being obnoxious, Father. The truth is, I wish to endure your company as briefly as possible, and then only at a distance, and downwind."

"Oh yeah?" shouted Sir Gawaine, who had heard more than enough.

Mordred curled one horn of his black moustache, laughing satanically, sable cloak billowing behind him in the wind. "Yeah," he replied.

"Enough," Arthur cried, raising a hand. "What are your terms, Mordred?"

"First, you must name me your sole heir," Mordred replied. "Secondly, you must name me co-regent and acknowledge my claim to the lands I've already taken."

"Is that all?" Arthur laughed, marveling at his son's arrogance.

"No. I also want to name and preside over a new Central Economic Committee, with powers and responsibilities to be defined by me. The only way we're going to get out of this balance-of-trade situation is with a solid dose of industrial planning, and I'm just the boy to see it through."

"Are you?" Arthur demanded. "Milton Friedman says your policies are hogwash."

"Milton Friedman?" Mordred cried. "Give me a break!"

"Why don't you give us all a break, Mordred?" Arthur pleaded. "Give up these mad schemes. Put aside your hatred. Become a monk. Go far, far away. Or kill yourself, maybe."

"Soothing words," Mordred answered. "But words won't save you."

"Even if I agree to your terms?"

"No, not even then."

"God in heaven, you're irrational."

"Yeah, I know. And I just love it." With that, Mordred planted a loud, smacking kiss on his own left hand. "Be seeing you, Dad. I'll be back--with my army."

He and his company turned and galloped off. "Merlin," Arthur said, "what are our chances?"

Merlin stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "As things stand now, My Lord, I'd say we re up the proverbial creek."

"What's the latest word on his forces?"

"Every day another of your subject kings flocks to his banner."

"Can a single man flock?"

"Hey look, Sire, I'm a wizard, not a grammarian," Merlin snapped. "Now where was I? Oh, yes. A huge Saxon army under Horsa's son Mister Ed has crossed the channel. It'll be joining Mordred's host within the week--along with the usual compliment of East German and North Korean advisers. The Cubans have also finished that airstrip outside York. Mordred's troops are receiving more Warsaw Pact weapons than they could ever possibly use. With armor support."

"Armor?"

"Chain mail, plate, the works."

"You're sure he's getting it from the Eastern Bloc?"

"Positive, Sire." Merlin signaled a knight forward, Sir Lew De Grade; in his arms the man bore a shirt of crudely-made chain, as well as a primitive but reliable-looking mace. Arthur took the weapon, hefted it.

"An AK-1," Merlin said. "Warsaw Pact, standard issue."

"Good Lord," Arthur said. "How can we stop him?"

"We'll lay down our lives, all of us," said Sir Lancelot. "Give the last drop of our blood."

"Not me," said Sir Gareth. "I gave last week."

"We cannot win through force of arms," Merlin said.

"Shall we just despair, then?" Arthur asked. "Hope to die well, and nothing more?"

"No, there's a chance. We must trust in God. And the Prophecy."

"You mean the one about the Antichrist and the Common Market?"

"No," Merlin said solemnly. "The one about the Holy Spad."

"The Spad," Arthur said. "The plane Joseph of Arimathea flew the Holy Grail to Britain in.

Merlin nodded. "Only a Knight of the Round Table who has achieved the Spad can defeat Mordred."

"But achieving the Spad..." Arthur said. "No one's ever come close. Not even Jacques Cousteau... Of course, he kept looking for it in the South Pacific, so what do you expect?"

"You must hold a tourney, Sire," Merlin continued. "Find the strongest knight in your realm and send him on the quest."

"But will there be enough time?" Arthur asked.

"Sure. Mordred's already announced that he'll be attending a wine-tasting in some place called Chemung, New York. His troops will have to wait till he returns."

"Very well then. A tourney will be held. Make the preparations."

They went down from the parapet.

"Blood test, schmudtest," Arthur muttered. "How could I have a kid like that?"

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