Trenchcoat Cat Is on the Case

Everything is going to be be alright, Trenchcoat Cat is on the case.

UPDATE: Tim Holt has the backstory on Trenchcoat Cat.

Despite his turned up trenchcoat collar, the chill of the San Francisco fog lingered about his ears. He glanced up and down the alleyway, his whiskers twitching as he thought about all that had happened that night, and what had to happen before the night was over.

He may have been strong, tough, and alley cat wise but this was not going to be an easy thing to do. “I need something to get me through this” he thought. And there, like a beacon in the night to a lost sailor, the flickering neon sign – “Fatso’s Keyboard Bar”

The place reeked of dead mice and litter boxes, but that was how he felt – just the place for a stray. He signaled the barkeep for a nip and a bowl of kibble, and sat down in a dark corner. Fatso, the owner, sat at his keyboard as he did every night, dressed in that old blue shirt. The guy couldn’t bang out much of a tune, but he knew a few things. He knew when a gig was up and when it was time to go.

He was just settling into his second nip, dreaming of sunshine and warmer days, when suddenly he felt a warm paw touch his ear. He turned, and there stood Ilsa – his old flame. She had fur that just didn’t stop and a tail that drove tomecats wild. He knew she played the field, but so did he. They had an unspoken agreement, shared between whispers and whiskers. But it had been years now.

“What brings you here this dark night?”, he asked.

She look at him, a sad flicker in her eye. Nostaliga perhaps, or painful memories. “It’s time for some things to end”, she said. “Time to say good bye.”

With a lingering look over her shoulder and a flick of her tail, she wandered over to the keyboard.

Looking at Fatso and back at the dark corner, she purred, “Play it once, Fatso. For old times’ sake.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Ilsa”, growled Fatso in his sleepy gruff voice.

“Play it, Fatso. Play him off.”

“Oh, I can’t remember it, Miss Ilsa. I’m a little rusty on it.”

“I’ll hum it for you. Daa-dat-da-da-dat-da da daaa… Play it, Fatso.”