The Story of the Flittering Horde.

Scientists have known this would happen. They tried to convince the population that there was no possibility of it actually happening. They were wrong. Nostradamus was right. The reign of the Flitter Felines was brief, but bloody. Was I blessed to know their glorious history? Is it a curse? Even now, does some god or demon sit and hold their sides, tears of mirth unending streaming from their blighted eyes. Do they hoot with amusement, giggling and groaning with the Hoopoes and Pard?

I am not one to know, never one to have the knowledge that would be helpful. The knowledge that is needed. I am the jester, the minstrel, the Fool. I am crow, coyote and rabbit. I have not but my tales. My stories. The story of the Flittering Horde, is one of my darkest.

I will share it with you

I start my stories in the middle. It is usually best. The beginnings can be so long and tedious. Even when blood and murder and magic is involved…Veterinary experts said then that despite the hard inner core, the "wings" don't harm cats' quality of life or safety. According to the Telegraph's report, scientists believe that 

cats with wings

 developed due to grooming habits, a genetic defect or a hereditary skin condition little did they know it was the instrument of our demise. The cats… the cats of the Hoopoe wing… they would take over the world with their cuteness, and then use the evil, in which all cats have bound and coiling around their beating hearts, to enslave us.

The Japanese would be immune to their cuteness. Those noble men and women would attack with katanas and shuriken. But it would be futile, in the end. The Flittering Host, they learn very quickly, and would learn to dive bomb, much like a Peregrine Falcon, they would rake the eyes of their enemies, blinding them, laming them, destroying them. Only Manga fans who do not leave their homes for fear of sunlight or social interaction remain unscathed.

It is said the only sign of their approach, would be the low rumble of a hundred thousand cats purring in evil delight of their impending meal... Then as if a switch was turned, like some giant loosed his strange and terrible and beautiful menagerie; the Flitters would descend. In near perfect formation found in highly trained fighter pilots, they would bomb and rake and meow. Blood would flow freely across the land until Cosplay girls dressed as Neko-Nekos arrived to face them at the battle of Kuwaii. The glomping, the supersonic squeals, the juggernaut like strength of their minds were their weapons against the Flittering Throng. The battle was short, almost pitiful for the glorious reign of the Flittering Horde. Snatched from the sky by pre-adolescent girls many of the best were lost that day. Mittens, Snowflake, and we will all remember what happened to Chauncy.

Battle hymns were sung for Mittens, who was known as Lt. Mittens of the Crimson Paw-Paw. True to his name, his mittens were freshly coated with the blood of his enemies. Snowflake, the smallest of the flittering horde, found her end at the hands of a Guerilla Squirrel Attack. Her story still tells of how, with her final ounce of strength, she took down the mob of enemy squirrels by tucking her wings and plummeting to earth, to kill all but one of her enemies. Snowflake the Fallen, is invoked for the glorious dead.

Finally... Chauncy, Chancellor of the Magnificent Tail. Perhaps the only of the Flittering Horde, where not a drop of blood ever touched his ginger coat. He was glorious in his ability to end his foes without physically placing himself in danger. The one with the brain, he used his gifts to work for him. His sharp teeth, his flashing claws, his strong and true wings.... His enemies never saw the satellite dish... Never heard his purr of success, for indeed... Chauncy...Was mute… and blind. Young Flitters, still meow of Chauncy the Battle Saint, some say he was a black magic kitten, some say a witch. But his milky blue eyes, piscine and blind to the world, burned, raged with a mind that none of this earth may know, nor will ever bare again.


Now this terrible knowledge, is yours. Yours to know. Yours to bare. A burden, a curse, a glorious gift I have given. May it bring you peace, this knowledge of the terrible fate that might have happened to us in this very town. May it bless your days, every time you see a cat, a kitten. Know what evil sits inside of its darkened-churning-burning-boiling heart. Every soft paw has a ripping claw. May you bare this knowledge…and sleep soundly.

One of us has to.