Hello again! October is drawing to a close, Halloween is approaching quickly and I still haven’t carved this year’s pumpkin. I dare say there won’t be one on our door step this year. Again.
Something else is fast approaching: National Novel Writing Month! I still haven’t made up my mind over whether I will participate this year, but I might do so unofficially, just to get some writing done. Unless I get buried in work (which might be preferable).
This week, we return to Eliot and the demon hunters–coincidentally, someone asked me last week whether I wouldn’t want to write about cats now that I’m watching so many cat videos on YouTube. Well, I’m trying…
Demon Hunters and Other Problems – IV
When I left for work the next morning, Mommy was still sleeping. I made myself breakfast (thank God for the invention of coffee capsules) und checked my messages. Nothing from Oliver yet, but two flirt messages on Catr. Sorry, not interested in big and hairy—don’t want to be crushed by you at night.
Work was chaos, as usual. For some reason, we had too much money, so someone had made the wonderful choice of buying up more space in our building. Only that the space was located on the first floor, while we were residing on the fifth floor. So now there was a constant stream of people, fauns and cats between their desks and the elevators.
I yawned as I observed their movements from the “creative thinking sofa” that stood in the middle of the entrance area. Nobody minded that I did—caressing a cat makes customers spend more, apparently. Never mind that I hate being caressed by people I don’t know.
“How was your date?” It was Jetta, our office overseer-something-manager. She was a faun with centaur ancestry who tended to brag about her feet being those of a horse and not of a goat. Also, she was our gossip machine.
“Good.” I said, hoping she would leave.
“Oh? When was the last time you said that about any of your dates?” Yeah, I talk too much. “Come on, tell me more! Where did you go, and will you meet her again?” Okay, I didn’t tell her everything.
“Restaurant specialized in cats. Maybe.” Of course that was not what I was hoping for, but I didn’t want any rumors to spread among my colleagues (apart from the ones that were already there).
“Eliot! There you are! Come on, we got a customer waiting!” Ross, one of our account managers, saved me from Jetta’s ears. I like him, he’s interested in results, not blah-blah. Also, he’s got incredible soft hands that like to caress my back. “Up, up, we’re already late!” One thing I don’t like is that he grabs me without permission and carries me to our meetings. I mean, sure, it’s convenient, but it also makes me look childish. Not that anybody around the office really gets that. I’m a creative as much as a toy for all their cuddling needs.
The meeting room was rather empty. Most companies send at least five people to discuss new campaigns with us—and another two to tell us not to spend too much money on developing them further. This customer had come alone. He was tall, lean, and his tanned skin didn’t quite work with his ash blond hair. Also, he had bleached his teeth, so their white matched that of his open shirt. I was rather appalled at soon as I spotted him, but I don’t get to choose the people I work for.
“Mr. Fletcher, this is Eliot Nightfall, one of our finest ad creatives. Eliot, this is Mr. Fletcher.” Ross introduced us to each other by sitting me on the table in front of Mr. Fletcher.
I nodded shortly and Mr. Fletcher didn’t seem at all confused by the fact that I was a cat. I mean, it’s common for cats to work these days, it’s just that most of us don’t work in offices and rather stick to blue collar jobs. Maybe that was part of the reason why I was still single—those worker cats usually found me stuck-up.
Mr. Fletcher patted my head with his callused hand. “Hello, Eliot—I can call you Eliot, yes? I’m Robert, but please call me Bob.” He grinned and I could see his shiny white teeth again. I shuddered, but tried not to make it too obvious that I didn’t like him.
Ross sat down next to Mr. Fletcher. “So, Bob, tell me: what can we do for your company?” He took a bottle of apple juice from the center of the table and poured it into a glass in front of him. Ross loved apple juice.
“You see… It’s not so much a company. I am the company. I’m Bob Fletcher, the new demon hunter of New York City, and I want the people to know that they can trust me.”
I gasped. This meeting had just gone from bad to worse.