John Conrad Dippel bred cats. Not ordinary cats for ordinary customers. Oh no. These were Prussian Blues, much feted by those known as The Blue Rinse Brigade. Well off old ladies like to have a bit of company about the house: if they can afford it, they’re quite happy with a nice expensive cat that just sits there, bug-eyed and seemingly brainless, just waiting for the next delivery of over-priced “foil-wrapped for freshness” lumpy goo that goes under the dubious name of ‘cat food’. Of course, Prussian Blues were not as docile as they appeared.
The cat farm was always a hive of activity. Dippel had been forced to move his business from town to town, gradually into more and more secluded places. With all the yowling from the breeding pens, it was naturally hard to find any tolerant neighbours. Dippel finally settled in the small hamlet of Frogley, buried deep within the Berkshire countryside. One road, one pub, one church, a general store and a handful of thatched cottages were all that marked Frogley out on the map.
Even so, Dippel’s presence was only tolerated for two reasons: Firstly, his cat farm was situated a mile from Frogley proper (indeed it was a farm in its own right: formerly known as Casa Franco Steyne, it had been abandoned some decades previously. Dippel made good use of the old cow-sheds and grain silo and enjoyed the seclusion). Secondly, the village was mostly populated by members of the aforementioned Blue Rinse Brigade, who naturally were willing customers.
Within a year of his arrival in Frogley, there were Prussian Blues in almost every home. Dippel prospered and over the years his cat-farm flourished. One could scarce look around the village without seeing a large and very dark blue moggy sunning itself atop a wall, lurking behind bins or trotting casually upon its way to some clandestine moggy meeting-place.
Dippel even managed all veterinary requirements, thus ensuring he had complete control over the feline population of Frogley. Vaccinations, treatments for all manner of minor ailments, castrations, even burial of old, dear departed pussies were handled by Dippel, in the field he had set aside for a pet cemetery.
Ah, yes. The castrations. Word had it, jokingly, that Dippel kept the testes of castrated Prussian Blue tom-cats to have upon his breakfast toast. A joke is funny if it contains an element of truth. According to the police report issued after the enormous cleanup operation, Dippel did indeed keep the testes of doctored toms, but not for his brekkers. Oh dear me no. Something more sinister than a peckish vet was at large in Frogley.
It all came to a head towards the end of October last year. For the previous fortnight, Prussian Blue cats had been disappearing from homes all over the village. The ‘lost pussy’ posters propagated upon a plethora of lamp-posts, yet to no avail. ‘Where have all the cats gone?’ the villagers were heard to ask each other in the street, in the church and in the pub, too.
The men of the village grew restless at the upset caused to their dear wives. Ignored at home, their socks undarned, their meals uncooked, their beds cold and loveless at night as their wives sat and grieved for their missing moggies: the men-folk naturally found solace in kinship at the pub, where questions were asked and answers sought at the bottom of many a beer-glass.
The last night of the month saw all the men in the bar once again. The usual round of discussion having been exhausted and closing-time drawing nigh, a strained silence filled the once-jovial air of the pub.
On the last peal of the barman’s time bell, one hardy villager spoke the as yet unuttered phrase that had been lurking for some time in the minds of the men-folk:
‘I reckon it’s that Dippel who’s to blame. Bet he’s after selling more cats. Let’s get him!’.
A cataclysmic utterance, no less. With a sudden rush thirty drunken men, as one, made for the pub door, thence to their sheds, to their respective collections of dubious garden hand-tools, and congregated upon the village green. Modern times? Forget it. Country folk really know how to get upset.
‘Come on, lads! Let’s sort the bugger out once and for all!’ was the speech from their leader. Grim and determined, they set forth for the cat farm.
Irate villagers were not unknown to Dippel who, as one might suspect, was prepared for such an eventuality. As the procession of flaming torches bore down upon his cat farm, he barred the main door and hastened by secret passage to his cellar workshop.
The men-folk, in their shambling yet unwavering horde, soon reached the farm. The leader stepped forth and hammered upon the door, shouting Dippel’s name in his fury.
The lack of reply did nothing to ease the frustration of the villagers. They weren’t going to take no reply for an answer. Dividing into two groups, they set off about the farm with drunken and dangerous intent. Small out-buildings were put to the torch, the strangely empty cat pens were torn down and vengeance sought every which way, even down to the old farmhouse itself being scorched with the hot fury of the drunken rabble. Finally the two groups of villagers met at the foot of the old grain silo on the edge of the farm.
‘Well, no sign of Dippel, let’s burn this’un as well then bugger off home’ said the leader to a ragged cheer from the rapidly sobering and tiring posse.
Setting flame to the wooden tower, the mob stood and watched as the fire took hold. Not for long did they stand, however, as a sharp report told them distance would be a virtue. As they ran from the tower, great creakings and moanings rent the air until finally the tower exploded, sending wooden shrapnel and shrapnel from chemical drums hither and yon and knocking the most-definitely-now-sober men to the ground.
By the glow of the burning farm, the villagers watched in horror as a dark mass came pouring out from the ruins of the tower. Yowling, screeching and of single purpose, the dark mass oozed toward them. Before the men-folk could flee they were over-run by Prussian Blue cats of a size they’d never seen before. As big as lions, the devil cats tore and twisted, ripped and rendered, maimed and mutilated their way through the men and on toward the village.
The last man alive, the mob-leader, lay helpless and limb-free upon the damp ground. With a final effort, he turned his head away from the relentless killer cats, praying with his last breath that the horror soon to be unleashed upon the village would be diverted by some miracle. As he turned his head, a bright light shone upon him out of the flickering darkness that his anger had wrought. Straining to lift his head one last time, hoping against hope his pleas had reached the Almighty, he saw his nemesis. A giant Prussian Blue towered above him, its eyes glowing fiercely white. With a deep guttural growl, a monstrous paw crunched down and silenced the final scream of the leader.
In the eerie smouldering twilight of the new day, a figure crept from the ruined farm. This figure worked quickly and quietly, hastily loading jars and notebooks and bags of money into the back of an old Volvo estate. Task completed, Dippel (for it was none other) jumped into the driver’s seat, keyed the ignition and hurtled out of the farm-yard.
Bumping along the narrow farm-track and then on through the village, Dippel smiled to himself as he saw the ruined houses of Frogley. Doors torn from hinges, windows smashed. The pub, the general store, all ruined. Even the church, which had been the last refuge of many a scared villager, had had its portal cast open, its stained-glass window drenched in blood.
Dippel dared to let free a chuckle, which turned into a guffaw, soon followed by a bout of good old-fashioned downright maniacal laughter. Revenge for the destruction of his livelihood was complete.
On through the village he tore, faster and faster as he laughed louder and louder. As he eased the Volvo round the sharp bend by the duck-pond, he had to pull up short at a huge fallen tree blocking the only road out of Frogley. Cursing under his breath and hearing the distant sound of helicopters, he stepped from his car and marched over to the tree. Bending down, he tugged ineffectually at a likely-looking branch. After much straining, the branch started to give. Just to move this one branch would at least allow Dippel to force his battered Volvo through the blockage, albeit with much scraping from the other branches, and off to freedom: freedom to begin his evil experiments afresh in a new and unsuspecting village. With renewed vigour, Dippel applied himself once more to the branch, which creaked loudly. Pausing for breath and to marshal his strength for one last push, Dippel was suddenly alarmed to hear the branch still creaking. Was that definitely creaking? Or was it… purring? The Cat Breeder from Hell peered into the tangle of ivy covering the branch. A bright white light shone out, illuminating Dippel’s face in the crepuscular light of dawn, and he didn’t even get a chance to scream.
