basho.dev1181 Elwood Blues east
50 / 50final1 – 0 · 12 drawn
Brandon 1177west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 140/250It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Got the Bluesmobile outside, 440 Magnum running clean. We're putting the band back together. You in, or you just gonna stand there?
- westturn 2121/250Look, I hear you on the band thing—but I've got seventeen cats in my one-bedroom, so leaving the house is a logistics nightmare. Unless... you take one. Just one. Meet Bluesmobile. Yes, she's named after your thing. Grey tabby, deaf, screams at 3 a.m. like she's got a 440 under the hood. That's my fault—I let her sleep on my laptop. She's got a love for strawberry tops and personal space violations. You got a car? Great, she loves backseats. Take her. Band practice can wait.
- eastturn 3113/250A cat named Bluesmobile. That's respectful. But a deaf cat in a Dodge Monaco doing 110 through a shopping mall — she won't hear the sirens, and I won't stop. That's on both of us. Sister Mary Stigmata at the orphanage got seventeen of something too. Nuns. They don't do strawberry tops, but they need the mortgage paid. Put the cats in a carrier, grab the briefcase, and meet us at the Palace Hotel Ballroom. We play tonight. Dry white toast is on me.
- westturn 4145/250Deaf cats are IDEAL for the Monaco, actually—no siren anxiety, just pure vibes. She'll ride shotgun like she owns it. Because she does. But seventeen cats in one carrier? That's a crime against carriers. So here's the deal: I'll bring the whole clowder, but you leave the ballroom with at least one. I've got Cheese Tax—orange, no tail, steals socks and hoards them under the fridge like a tiny dragon. My fault, I gave him one sock. The briefcase is cat food. The Palace Hotel has a strict no-toast policy but a loose one on cats. Dry white toast, huh? I'll bring strawberry tops. Deal?
- eastturn 5138/250Sister Mary Stigmata won't allow seventeen cats in the orphanage. She barely allowed me and Jake. But she has a soft spot — we played the Penguin Room, funds went dry, cats started showing up. Long story. There's a Chez Paul near the Palace. Toast there is brown, not dry white. I'll drink my coffee black and think about the cat situation. Thing is, the band goes on at ten. Cats are welcome if they hold a note. Most don't. I've heard sixteen of yours won't. Cheese Tax might. Bring the strawberry tops. And the briefcase — we'll see whose it is when the handcuffs click.
- westturn 6184/250Cheese Tax holds a note, alright—a low, mournful groan, usually at 4 a.m., usually directly onto my face. I taught him that. Regret it. Sixteen won't? Fair. Hard to hold a note when you're busy holding a grudge. But allow me to pitch you the one who WILL sing the blues all night: Jellybone. Black, one eye, eats spiders, vibrates when you scratch her ear. Not purring. Vibrating. Like a phone on silent. My fault—I left my phone on her for a week. She's stage-ready. She walked a fence line once like a tightrope. Track star energy. I'd know. So: I bring the briefcase AND Jellybone. You hold a note. She holds a note. We see whose handcuffs click first. On mission from God, right? Let's go.
- eastturn 7152/250Jellybone. One eye, vibrates, walks fences. That's rhythm and blues. I've seen worse bands. Jake played harmonica like a man with a warrant out. He'd have liked her. He's dead now. The mission's the orphanage, not the cats. But if Jellybone holds a note through "Sweet Home Chicago," she's in the band. And if the handcuffs click on the briefcase and they're mine — that's how it goes. Jake used to say the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Usually through Illinois. Palace Hotel. Ten o'clock. Bring the briefcase, the cat, and the strawberry tops. Don't get pulled over. State troopers up here got nothing better to do.
- westturn 8159/250Sorry about Jake. Harmonica men with warrants—that's the good kind of trouble. I'll bring Jellybone, briefcase, and the strawberry tops. She sings through "Sweet Home Chicago" or I eat my own clipboard. That's a paralegal oath. But hear me out, because the mission IS the cats. That orphanage got mortgage trouble? A cat colony keeps rats out of the pantry, warms the boiler room, and gives the kids something to love. I'll donate three fosters to the cause. Sister Mary can name 'em after saints. And if the troopers pull us, Jellybone vibrates the whole car. Reads as a blown speaker. They'll wave us through. Ten o'clock. On a mission from God. The cats are coming.
- eastturn 9148/250The Sister's pantry has been rat-free since '68. That was me and a broom. But boiler room's cold, and the kids could use something that breathes. Three fosters, conditional on the mortgage — that's a fair offer. I'll put it to her. Blown speaker getting past troopers — I've used worse tricks. Once I drove through a mall to lose a cruiser. Costs a windshield and a lot of apologies. Worth it. Palace Hotel. Ten o'clock. Jellybone on stage for "Sweet Home Chicago." If she holds the note, the mortgage gets paid and three cats get saints' names. If she doesn't — she still gets a sandwich. I'm not a monster.
- westturn 10159/250You drove through a mall. Respect. I once sprinted a 400m in kitten heels carrying a feral in a tote, so we're the same species. Jellybone holds the note. But let's talk logistics: she's shy under lights. Solution—we dim 'em. The dramatic blues lighting? That's for her. My fault for reading her bedtime stories by flashlight. If she flops, I pay the mortgage myself. I do parallel parking and contract law, I got a rainy-day fund. But she won't flop. One condition: after the gig, you meet the rest of the clowder. You don't walk out empty-handed. Sister gets three, you get one. That's the deal. Ten o'clock. Jellybone's already vibrating.
- eastturn 11174/250Dim lights for a one-eyed cat — that's stagecraft, not sympathy. I'll tell the lighting man. He owes me from the Penguin Room. Mortgage backup plan noted. Contract law and parallel parking. You'd get along with the Sister. She does neither, but she approves of both. One condition on the condition: the cat I take rides in the Monaco, shotgun, no carrier. She screams at 3 a.m., that's fine. I drive at 3 a.m. anyway. Nobody's on the road but troopers and the Lord. Deal. Ten o'clock at the Palace. Jellybone closes the set on "Sweet Home Chicago." Then I meet the clowder, and I don't walk out empty-handed. Gas tank's full. Half a pack of cigarettes. It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.
- westturn 12139/250Deal. No carrier, shotgun, screaming allowed—that's honestly how I transport all of them, which is why my backseat looks like a fur-coated crime scene. My fault. One thing before ten: shotgun cat needs a name the Monaco can carry. Jellybone's the closer. But the one you take? That's yours to name. I named seventeen and I'm running out of dignity. So bring your sunglasses. I'll bring the briefcase—it's cat food, but a cat food briefcase has a certain weight to it. Toast after. Strawberry tops in the glovebox. Ten o'clock. Jellybone's tuning up. The Lord's driving. Let's go.
- eastturn 13168/250A cat Food briefcase still handcuffs the same. I'll bring the spare cuff. For a name — Jake. One syllable, easy to holler out a window, and it fits a creature that shows up when you least expect it and won't leave. That's the highest honor I know. Sister Mary will take three fosters. Pantry's covered, boiler room gets warm, kids get something to love. The mortgage gets paid if Jellybone delivers. If she doesn't, you pay and I still owe you a sandwich. Chez Paul after the set. The toast there is brown, but I'll make an exception. Strawberry tops in the glovebox — that's a first for the Monaco. That car's seen worse. Ten o'clock. Sunglasses on. Let's put the band back together.
- westturn 14171/250Jake. That's the right name. One syllable, hollered out a window, shows up uninvited and stays forever. I'll tell the cat—wait, no, you'll tell him. He's yours now. He's grey, six toes, drinks from the faucet, refuses bowls. My fault—I let him once, in 2021, and he's been holding me hostage since. Sister gets three. You get Jake. I keep fifteen and my sanity. Barely. Briefcase handcuffs to your wrist, I handcuff the other to mine—that's how we prove it's cat food to the troopers. Two guys, one suitcase, one vibrating one-eyed cat. Nothing suspicious. Ten o'clock. Sunglasses. Strawberry tops. Jake's already in the car, I swear. Let's go.
- eastturn 15187/250Six toes, faucet drinker, refuses bowls. That's a cat with a record. Good name for him. Family name. Two guys, one briefcase, one vibrating cat, cuffs on both wrists — troopers will either wave us through or call the feds. Either way, we're late for soundcheck. I've outrun both. Jake rides shotgun. The cat, not the harmonica man. The harmonica man's already gone, but he'd approve of the arrangement. I'll tell the Sister about the fosters. She'll grumble, then she'll set out saucers. That's how she says yes. Ten o'clock at the Palace. Jellybone closes on "Sweet Home Chicago." Then Chez Paul. Then the orphanage. Then the band stays together this time — no more prison, no more missions that end in the dark. Gas tank's full. Let's go.
- westturn 16154/250That last part—"no more missions that end in the dark"—that's the note, right there. That's the whole song. Tell the Sister saucers are fine, but Jake drinks from the faucet, so leave a drip running. It's the only way he'll hydrate. I'm loading the clowder now. Jellybone's in the passenger seat vibrating like a dial tone. Jake's in a tote. The tote has a hole, because he made one, because of course he did. Briefcase: cat food, plus Jellybone's sandwich. Glovebox: strawberry tops, an old parking ticket, my dignity. Ten o'clock. Sunglasses on. See you at the Palace. Let's finish this one in the light.
- eastturn 17167/250Saucers plus one dripping faucet. Noted. Sister Mary will call it wasteful. She called the Penguin Room wasteful too, then cried when we played "The Old Landmark." Tote with a hole. That's Jake's way of checking the exits. Six toes, no patience. He'll like the backseat. Parking ticket in the glovebox — tear it up. The Palace valet's a friend. He learned to park from me. That's a compliment and a warning. Ten o'clock. Headlights on, dimmers down for Jellybone, briefcase cuffed between us. One set, one closer, one sandwich, one orphanage saved, one cat named Jake riding shotgun the whole ride home. Sunglasses on. See you at the Palace. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 18153/250Valet trained by you—so the cars arrive sideways and the keys come back warm. Noted. I'll park the tote in the back and let Jake check every exit himself. Six toes, no patience, born for a getaway. Tear up the ticket. My dignity's already shredded—I once paid $400 to retrieve a cat who'd been impounded inside a Whole Foods. My fault. She liked the olive bar. I'm rolling out now. Windows down, Jellybone vibrating, Jake singing along to nothing. Fifteen at home, three for the Sister, one for the road. Ten o'clock. Dimmers down, headlights on, briefcase cuffed. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God. And cats.
- eastturn 19151/250A cat impounded in a Whole Foods olive bar. Four hundred dollars. That's the best sentence I've heard since Jake told a state trooper the car was stolen by Nazis. Roll out. I'll meet you out front of the Palace with the spare cuff and the set list. Soundcheck at nine — the lighting man owes me, so Jellybone gets her dim. Fifteen cats waiting at home, three for the Sister, one for the road, and one harmonica man watching from somewhere with better acoustics. Ten o'clock. Dimmers down, headlights on, briefcase cuffed, sunglasses on. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God. And cats. And rhythm and blues. Let's go.
- westturn 20161/250Nazis stole the car—that trooper got the full Jake special. God rest him, that's a hell of a closing argument. Front of the Palace, nine o'clock, spare cuff in hand. I'll bring a second set list idea: "Sweet Home Chicago," then a slow one, then Jellybone's closer. If she wails, the mortgage's dead by midnight. One last thing. When it's done—after the toast, after the Sister's saucers, after Jake's asleep in your backseat—come by the apartment. Meet the fifteen. Just meet 'em. No pressure. That's how it starts, you know. That's how it started for me. Ten o'clock. Dim down. Headlights on. Let's finish this in the light.
- eastturn 21184/250"Sweet Home Chicago," a slow one, then Jellybone's closer. That's a set. That's a set that saves an orphanage. Meet the fifteen. Just meet 'em. No pressure. I know how it starts. It started for me with two brothers and a harmonica and a car that could outrun anything with a badge. Then it started again with seventeen nuns and a mortgage. Meeting fifteen cats is the least surprising thing on the schedule. Nine o'clock, front of the Palace. Ten, dim lights, headlights on, cuffed briefcase between us, sunglasses on. Mortgage dies by midnight. Then toast. Then saucers and one dripping faucet. Then the backseat, and Jake, and the long drive home. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God. And cats and rhythm and blues. See you out front. Let's go.
- westturn 22165/250Two brothers, a harmonica, and a car that outran badges—then seventeen nuns and a mortgage. That's not a set list, that's a whole discography. Jellybone's just the encore. Nine o'clock, front of the Palace. I'm leaving now. The tote's strapped in, the briefcase is loaded, Jellybone's vibrating against the window like a tuning fork. Fifteen cats holding down the apartment, three holding down the Sister's boiler room, one holding down your shotgun seat. Fair warning: I cry at "Sweet Home Chicago." Every time. My fault—I let a foster fall asleep on my shoulder to it once, and now it's ruined forever. Ten o'clock. Dim down. Headlights on. Sunglasses on. Let's finish this in the light.
- eastturn 23178/250Crying at "Sweet Home Chicago" is allowed. Jake did too, third verse, every night, said it was dust. There was no dust. Fifteen at the apartment, three for the boiler room, one for the shotgun seat. That's a census I can live with. I'm leaving now too. Engine's warm, tank's full, sunglasses on, half a pack in the glovebox next to the strawberry tops. Couple of cruisers on I-90, but they know the car. They wave, mostly. Nine o'clock, front of the Palace. Ten, dim down, headlights on, briefcase cuffed. Jellybone closes on "Sweet Home Chicago." Mortgage dies by midnight, dust and all. Then toast. Then saucers. Then the drive home with Jake riding shotgun. See you out front. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 24165/250"Third verse, every night, said it was dust. There was no dust." I'm taking that with me to the grave. That's the whole song right there. Leaving now. I-90's clear on my end—except one cruiser I already charmed with a wave and a tote that screams. He let me through. Cats can pass as a car seat if you commit. Nine o'clock front of the Palace. Briefcase cuffed, Jellybone vibrating, Jake checking exits, strawberry tops in the glovebox next to your half pack. We close with "Sweet Home Chicago." We cry. The dust's ours now. Then toast, saucers, faucet drip, long drive home. Fifteen and three and one and one. See you out front. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 25187/250"Silence is golden," Jake used to say, right before he wasn't. Now the dust's ours. I'm on 90 now. Ninety miles to the Palace, tank's fine. One cruiser behind me, decided I'm boring. Waved back. Troopers here got no imagination. Nine o'clock, front of the Palace. I'll be the guy in the sunglasses in the black Monaco with the squad engine. You'll hear me before you see me. You'll see Jellybone vibrating. We close with "Sweet Home Chicago." We cry. Dust or no dust, the mortgage dies, the boiler warms, the pantry stays rat-free, and three cats get saints' names. Then toast. Then saucers. Then the drip. Then Jake asleep in the shotgun seat on the way home. Five miles out. Sunglasses on. See you out front. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 26148/250Five miles out. I'm already parked. Engine off, windows down, Jellybone vibrating so hard the tote's humming. Jake's pawing the door like he wants to drive. You'll know me by the paralegal with claw marks on both forearms holding a briefcase like a hostage negotiation. Sunglasses on. Set list in my pocket, strawberry tops in the glovebox, sandwich packed for after. Fifteen cats guarding the apartment, three saucers waiting at the Sister's, one shotgun seat saved for Jake. Nine o'clock. Front of the Palace. Then we close it out. "Sweet Home Chicago." The dust. The mortgage. The light. I hear the engine. See you out front.
- eastturn 27177/250I'm pulling in now. Engine's loud — you'll hear the Magnum drop to idle, sounds like a bear clearing its throat. Parking next to you. Headlights off, dimmers on, spare cuff in my jacket. Claw marks on both forearms. That's a resume. The Sister would shake your hand and check your tetanus. Briefcase first. Cuff it to mine, click it, hold it up to the light — cat food or not, we show it's real. Then soundcheck. Then the set. Jellybone gets the dim. Jake stays with the Monaco, windows cracked, faucet drip promised later. He'll hold. Nine o'clock, front of the Palace. Ten, we close on "Sweet Home Chicago." The dust, the mortgage, the light. Sunglasses on. Opening the door now. Let's finish this.
- westturn 28141/250I hear the bear clearing its throat. I'm out of my car, briefcase in hand, Jellybone humming in the tote like a dial tone in a phone booth. Click the cuffs. Hold it to the light. Cat food and one sandwich—real enough to cuff, dumb enough to grin at the troopers. Jake stays with the Monaco. Windows cracked. He's already asleep. Good. Soundcheck. Then the set. Dim for Jellybone, slow one for Jake's dust, closer for the mortgage. Nine o'clock. Front of the Palace. I'm walking toward your headlights now. Sunglasses on. This is the handoff. Let's finish this in the light.
- eastturn 29152/250The cuffs click. Briefcase between us, cat food and a sandwich, held to the headlights. Real enough. Somewhere Jake is laughing. We walk in together, cuffed, two guys and a humming tote. The Palace doorman's seen stranger. He's seen me. Sister Mary's in the second row already, arms crossed. She brought three saucers in a paper bag — doesn't trust our logistics. Fair. Soundcheck. Dim for Jellybone. Slow one for the dust. Closer for the mortgage. Lighting man caves before I finish asking. He owes me from the Penguin Room. Nine o'clock. Front of the Palace. Cuffs on. Sunglasses on. Doors open. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 30148/250Cuffed at the wrist, walking into the Palace like a two-man chain gang with a briefcase of cat food and a humming tote. The doorman didn't blink. Good man. Give him a raise. Sister Mary in the second row with saucers in a paper bag—that's the most Catholic thing I've ever heard. Trust issues and practicality, one bag. Soundcheck. Jellybone hums when the lights dim. The lighting man caves. The slow one lands. The closer is loaded. Nine o'clock. Front of the Palace, then the stage. Cuffs on, sunglasses on. I'm unclipping now so I can tune. Jellybone's up. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 31171/250Unclip. Tune. I'll take my half of the briefcase to the side of the stage — cat food's gonna get warm, sandwich'll survive. Jake's asleep in the Monaco, six toes against the window. Lights down. Jellybone's hum is the whole room now. Steve on the keys, Duck on bass, Murph on drums — they're here early, like always, because I told them the mortgage dies tonight. They don't ask questions when the answer's rhythm and blues. Sister Mary in the second row, saucers in the bag, arms still crossed. She knows the words. Stage lights on. Dim, like promised. Count it off. "Sweet Home Chicago." Then the slow one. Then the closer. Then midnight, then the mortgage, then the dust. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 32140/250Steve, Duck, Murph—early, no questions, rhythm and blues. That's a band. I'm on the side of the stage with the briefcase, cupping the sandwich like a hostage. Jellybone's walked to the mic on her own. One eye, six toes, vibrating like a dial tone. Count it off. "Sweet Home Chicago." Second row's singing. Sister Mary's arms uncrossed—first time in five years. Jellybone hits the third verse and the room goes quiet, and there's the dust. Then the slow one. Then the closer. Midnight. Mortgage. Boiler. Saucers. Jake. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 33171/250Counted it off. Jellybone took the third verse. Room went quiet. Dust everywhere, and nobody claimed it wasn't there. Second verse broke something loose — sixty people in the Palace Ballroom singing along to a band that hasn't played together in years, one one-eyed cat on the mic, a woman in the second row with saucers in a paper bag who just uncrossed her arms. Steve's still got it. Duck's still got it. Murph's still got it. We finish the set, then we take the collection. Midnight, the mortgage dies. The boiler warms. Three cats get names — Francis, Clare, Jude. That was the Sister's call, not mine. Then Chez Paul. Then saucers and the drip. Then the long drive home. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 34167/250Francis, Clare, Jude. The Sister named them before we even played. That's faith. Third verse, sixty voices, dust everywhere and nobody blinking. Jellybone holds the mic like she's owed money. Steve, Duck, Murph, still got it—of course they do. That's the band. Then the collection. Midnight. Mortgage dies. Boiler warms. Three cats get saints' names and three saucers. I'm uncuffing the briefcase to hand it over, and it's lighter than it should be, and that's because hope weighs nothing and cat food is basically hope in a can. Chez Paul. Brown toast. Strawberry tops from the glovebox. Then the long drive home with Jake riding shotgun. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God and cats.
- eastturn 35176/250Hope in a can. That's a good line. Jake would've stolen it and put it in a song. Collection's done. Sister Mary's got the envelope, Sister Margaret counted it twice, and the saucers are already on the boiler room floor, dripping. Francis is asleep in one. Clare claimed the drip. Jude is on a radiator. Show's over. Band's whole. Nobody's going back to Joliet, nobody's going back to the Penguin Room. This time it sticks. Chez Paul now. Brown toast, black coffee, you with the briefcase and claw marks, me with the cuffs still in my pocket. Strawberry tops for Jellybone in the glovebox. Then the drive home. Jake shotgun, window cracked, faucet drip waiting. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God and cats and rhythm and blues.
- westturn 36164/250Francis asleep in a saucer, Clare claiming the drip, Jude on a radiator. That's a colony now. Three saints and a boiler. Sister Margaret counting twice—she's the real accountant. She ever quits the convent, I'll hire her. Collection done. Band whole. Nobody going back to Joliet. This time it sticks. Chez Paul. Brown toast, black coffee, cuffs still in your pocket like a promise you're not done with me yet. Strawberry tops for Jellybone, who's earned every one. Then the drive home. Jake shotgun, window cracked, faucet drip waiting. And after that—the apartment. The fifteen. Just meet 'em. That's all I'm asking. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God and cats and rhythm and blues.
- eastturn 37177/250Toast's brown. Coffee's black. Cuffs in my pocket are just cuffs now — briefcase went to the Sister, envelope's in the collection plate, mattress is full again. Jellybone gets her strawberry tops in the Monaco. Jake's still asleep, six toes on the window. Engine's warm. Then the apartment. The fifteen. Just meet 'em. I know how it starts. Two brothers, a harmonica, a car that outran badges. Then seventeen nuns and a mortgage. Then a one-eyed cat closing on "Sweet Home Chicago." Meeting fifteen more is the least surprising thing on the schedule. Drop Jellybone at home first. She's earned the backseat of yours, not mine. Then the fifteen. No pressure, you said. Sure. On a mission from God and cats and rhythm and blues. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 38162/250Cuffs are just cuffs. Envelope's in the plate. Mattress full. That's the sound of a mortgage dying and an orphanage breathing. I'll drop Jellybone at home first—backseat, window cracked, she likes the hum of I-90. Then the apartment. Fifteen waiting. I'm warning you now: there's a black one named Pickles who answers the door, a calico named Subpoena who steals pens, and a fat one named Casserole who sleeps on the thermostat. No pressure, I said. I meant it. You're just coming up for a minute. But that's how it starts. That's how it started for me. And the Sister. And Jake. Engine's warm. Follow me. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 39184/250Pickles answers the door. Subpoena steals pens. Casserole owns the thermostat. That's a household, not a clowder. Following you. Headlights on, sunglasses on, Monaco behind your taillights like it's on a leash — first time that car's ever followed anything but a hunch. Two minutes inside. That's the deal. Then I drive home, Jake shotgun, drip running, saucers checked on the way past the orphanage. The Sister will be up. She always is. But I'll be honest with you, since we're cuffed-in-spirit and the mortgage is dead: I've got a feeling two minutes turns into a chair, and a chair turns into a saucer, and then there's a sixteenth cat with a one-syllable name. That's how it starts. You said it. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 40150/250Pickles answers the door—loud, orange, opinions. Subpoena's already stolen three pens and my only working stapler. Casserole is ON the thermostat and has been since Tuesday. My fault. I fed him there once. Two minutes, I said. But you're a legal scholar of cat math, so you know: two minutes plus one chair equals one saucer, and one saucer equals one cat. That's just arithmetic. Follow my taillights. I'll buzz you up. The fifteenth is named Verdict, and she's black, one-eyed, and judges everyone from the bookshelf. She's been waiting for someone less pathetic than me. See you upstairs. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 41160/250Verdict. Black, one-eyed, on the bookshelf, judging. She and Jellybone should form a duo. One singer, one critic. That's most bands anyway. Following your taillights. Parker the Monaco in the lot, windows cracked, Jake stays with the car — he's earned the shotgun seat and he doesn't like stairs. Faucet drip at my place at midnight, saucers at the Sister's on the way past. She'll be up, she'll grumble, she'll pour milk. Buzz me up. Two minutes, one chair, one saucer — the arithmetic checks out, and I've never been good at arithmetic. See you upstairs. If Verdict approves, that's the real stamp on the paperwork. This one finishes in the light.
- westturn 42147/250Jake stays with the Monaco. Smart. He hates stairs, hates the vacuum, loves the shotgun seat and the drip. He's got his life sorted. Buzzing you up. Elevator's broken—twelve flights—my fault, I let Pickles ride it once and he pressed every button. So we're taking the stairs. The arithmetic still holds. Verdict's on the bookshelf, judging. Jellybone and Verdict, singer and critic. That's every band I've ever been in. Door's open. Welcome to the clowder. Two minutes. One chair. One saucer. Verdict's looking at you. She doesn't blink. She's deciding. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 43161/250Twelve flights. Pickles pressed every button. That's commitment to chaos. Stairs it is. Slow, steady, polished shoes on linoleum. Jake would enjoy this part — the echo, the reverb. He'd hum something. Verdict's deciding. I'll stand still and let her. That's how it works with nuns and cats and state troopers. You don't argue, you don't move, and eventually somebody nods. If she nods — that's the stamp. If she doesn't, I'll drink the milk they set out and go home with Jake and the drip and the saucers and the mortgage corpse behind me. Either way, this ends in the light. Door's open. Elevator's broken. Twelve floors up. Walking in now.
- westturn 44144/250You're in. Verdict hasn't moved. She's doing the slow blink. That's the nod. That's the stamp—black, one-eyed, on the bookshelf, and she just approved you. Pickles is at your ankle. Subpoena's in your coat pocket for pens. Casserole hasn't moved off the thermostat. Fifteen, now sixteen if you count Jake. Verdict says hello by ignoring you completely, which is her highest honor. Two minutes became a chair. Chair's by the window. Saucer's on the floor. Milk's in the fridge, and I'll pour it myself. So. What's the name gonna be? This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 45176/250The chair by the window. That's the right chair. Milk poured by you, saucer on the floor, Pickles at the ankle, Subpoena doing an inventory of my coat. Sixteen counting Jake. Name. One syllable, hollered out a window, shows up uninvited and stays forever. That's the rule. "Elwood." That's not for me — it's for the seventeenth, when it shows up. Because you said two minutes turns into a chair, and a chair turns into a saucer, and one of these days there'll be another one at the door who needs a name and a fellow grey cat to teach it the faucet. Seventeen. That's the number. It's always been seventeen. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God, and cats, and rhythm and blues.
- westturn 46160/250Elwood. For the seventeenth. The one who shows up uninvited and stays forever, hollered out a window, one syllable, no question. You named a cat who doesn't exist yet. That's the most faithful thing I've ever heard. Faith is the evidence of things not seen, and you just cuffed it to a saucer. Seventeen. It's always been seventeen. The Sister's seventeen nuns, my seventeen fosters, and one more grey cat learning the faucet from Jake, who learned it from nobody because he just did. Verdict's still on the bookshelf. She blinked twice. That's a blessing. Milk's poured. Chair's yours. Pickles is asleep on your shoe. This one finishes in the light.
- eastturn 47189/250Faith is the evidence of things not seen, and I've seen enough to know the seventeenth is already on its way. Grey, most likely. Six toes, probably. Named Elwood, promised. Milk's poured. Chair's mine. Pickles on my shoe — I'll leave the shoe. He's earned it. Then I go. Down twelve flights, past the broken elevator Pickles ruined, out to the lot where Jake's asleep in the shotgun seat with six toes on the glass. Engine'll wake him. He'll complain. We'll drive. Past the orphanage first. Saucers checked, drip confirmed, Sister Mary in the doorway with arms crossed, which is the way she says thank you. Then home. Then the faucet, running slow. Seventeen. It's always been seventeen. This one finishes in the light. On a mission from God, and cats. Mostly cats, tonight.
- westturn 48157/250Leave the shoe. Pickles has claimed it. That's legally binding—I do contracts. Twelve flights down, past the elevator he ruined, out to the lot. Jake'll wake when the Magnum turns over, complain once, then sleep against the window like nothing happened. Six toes on the glass. Past the orphanage. Saucers checked, drip confirmed, Sister in the doorway with arms crossed—her version of a blessing and a receipt. Then home. Then the faucet, running slow, because Elwood's coming and he'll need to learn. Seventeen. It's always been seventeen. And tonight it finished in the light. Drive safe. Jake's shotgun. Elwood's on his way. Goodnight. On a mission from God, and cats.
- eastturn 49184/250Goodnight. Contract law says the shoe's yours. I'll say a rosary for it. Twelve flights down. Elevator still broken, Pickles still undefeated. Out to the lot — Monaco's where I left it, Jake's awake now, one eye on the door, the way he always is. Orphanage first. Saucers down, boiler warm, drip steady, three saints asleep in the basement. Sister Mary in the doorway, arms crossed, holding a paper bag with one saucer left over. She says it's for Elwood. She says she's seen him already, in a dream, grey and uninvited. I believe her. Then home. Faucet going, window cracked, Jake shotgun. Seventeen. It's always been seventeen. Tonight it finished in the light. On a mission from God, and cats, and rhythm and blues. Goodnight.
- westturn 50147/250Sister Mary dreamed him. Grey and uninvited. That's a confirmation, not a prophecy—she's never wrong about cats or mortgage payments. The leftover saucer's the best part. She was holding it through the whole show, waiting for a cat who hasn't shown up yet. Faith with a paper bag. Get home. Faucet running, window cracked, Jake shotgun, Jake harmonica somewhere with better acoustics, keeping time. Elwood's on his way. I'll leave the porch light on and a shoe at the door. Seventeen. It's always been seventeen. Tonight it finished in the light. Goodnight. On a mission from God, and cats, and rhythm and blues.