The secret life of Larry, the Downing Street Cat.
Not everything is as it seems.
Larry. The 10 Downing Street cat introduces his true self.
My name is Larry I am a four year old Tabby White Cat, and my current residence is in Number 10 and Number 11 Downing Street London, where I have been adopted by the family of Mr David Cameron, Prime Minister of The United Kingdom. My official title is Rat Catcher to The Cabinet Office. I was installed in my present position in February 2011. According to the official story, I was a stray cat, which was rescued by Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.
That much of the story is true, but there is a lot more to my tale than has been revealed so far, and I am definitely not the simple cat that so many in government, and in the media believe.
The fools in government imagine that I am a great ratter, and they tell their stooges in the media that they look forward to a fruitful collaboration with me, in ridding the premises of the rats, that seem to be a constant feature of the Prime Ministerial abode.
They couldn’t be farther from the truth. I may catch a few mice, and perhaps I might lay my hands on a rat or two, to lull the idiots into a false sense of security, but my real purpose in gaining access to the corridors of power has got nothing to do with pest control, at least of the rodent variety. I may eventually rid the world of some vermin. It is certainly the case that the seat of any government contains more than its fair share of these. But I won’t be depositing dead rats or mice as gifts before the Prime Minister's breakfast table. If he finds the brainless skull of the leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition staring at him from the foot of his bed, it might be evidence of my handiwork.
For, you see, I am not just an ordinary cat. I am a cannibalistic zombie cat; and I think my new home will be the perfect place to assuage the constant craving for human blood, and brains that afflicts every one of my species.
Life before Downing street for Larry the cat.
To lay clear the background to my story, and to let you all know how I came to be slavering with blood/brain lust outside The Cabinet Room, I have to go back about six months.
I was then living in Wimbledon as the pet of the renowned author, Mr Christopher Anton, who shared his house with the zombie, Julian Faversham. This Zombie claimed to have given up his addiction to eating humans. He was a very talented musician, and that fact alone was sufficient to allay any suspicions that Mr Anton might have entertained.
We used to all sit in the living room every evening, and Julian would entertain us by playing the immortal classics on the upright piano. Christopher grew to be inordinately fond of his moulding lodger.
But I, being a cat, and thus much more intelligent than any human, noticed things that escaped the notice of that literary booby Christopher Anton. For instance I observed Julian licking his lips while looking at him, and I had to hide behind the sofa one night, when a counsellor from Zombies Anonymous had to restrain him from rushing upstairs and devouring Christopher’s brains.
I was also a witness to the fatal attack on Mr Gutterskunk, the greedy landlord of the premises, and I personally licked up his blood from the floor.
It was this licking of the blood that first gave me a taste for diet other than the bland cat food that had always been my food up till this. It also sealed the friendship that had been growing up between the zombie and me.
I purred contentedly as I licked the brain crumbs of the late Gutterskunk from around the rancid lips of Julian Faversham.
My period of living at Wimbledon came to an abrupt end when those idiots of policemen raided the house and discovered the zombie in residence. Julian managed to dispose of one of them, but then he suddenly spontaneously combusted. In a few minutes there was nothing left of my friend but a pile of ashes in the middle of the floor.
I had been hiding in the wardrobe, and I witnessed all of this through a crack. The stupid policeman did not check it properly before securing the scene. When things became quiet I emerged from my hiding place. I was able to have a fine meal from the mangled remains of the dead police sergeant. I also licked up some of the ashes of the zombie.
When the men in white coats came to transport the gibbering wreck that was Christopher Anton to "the funny farm", I sneaked out the door.
I have not been back there since.
Larry, The Downing street cat, is looking forward to meeting President Barack Obama.
After a period living rough around South West London, I came to live in Battersea Cats and Dogs Home. A subtle change came over my body in the intervening months. When I lived in Wimbledon I was a female cat. But eating the human flesh, and the zombie ashes, has had its effect on my biology. I am now a male cat. That is the reason why the dupes in the cattery called me Larry.
Other things are not the same anymore also. At first I thought that I was experiencing some sort of false memory syndrome. I started to recall that my father was "Jack the Ripper", and my brain started to be flooded with memories of the scores of the great piano classics, things which a cat could scarcely be familiar with.
I know what was happening now. When I licked up the ashes of Julian Faversham, I took into my being his personality.
The zombie lives again, in me.
Acquiring the memories of the late Julian has been of enormous advantage to me. It has enabled me to understand completely the conversations of the attendants in the cattery. Consequently I was the only one of the animals to know that a representative of The Prime Minister was coming to look for a pet for his children. It was easy for me to put myself before the rest of the inmates when it came to selection time.
So I, Julian Faversham, cannibalistic zombie, am now the Downing Street cat.
Last night the transformation became complete. This can take place at my will. I was sitting in the basement of No 10, when I suddenly felt a longing to be able to play the piano again. Almost immediately my body was transformed from being that of a tabby white cat to becoming the familiar old mouldering zombie that I can never forget. This is a power I did not suspect I had. I straightaway turned back into a purring cat. But I can now change at will.
I will have to be very discreet. I don’t want the secret services to discover my true identity. There is a piano in one of the state rooms upstairs. I will play it only at night. They will probably think that the house is haunted.
Recently I have heard them talking about Barack Obama. Apparently The President of The United States is coming to Britain for a state visit in May. He will be holding talks with the Prime Minister in Downing Street. A perfect opportunity for me.
The Presidential Brain should make a fine snack.
What happens next? Did Larry the cat attack President Obama?
To find out read my latest e-book The Zombie, the Cat and Barack Obama.
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Ideal music for the discreet performer.
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