At home, the renovation war had ended for the day. Archie had disappeared into thin air, and I caught Gustav standing in the middle of the living room like a hypnotized rabbit taking in the destruction the two of them had wreaked. The rooms had been completely stripped of their original zombielike character, and now looked, so to speak, as if they could at last rest in peace. Aside from the foundation walls, not much remained of the stately old pigsty. The two merciless tyrants had dispersed all the insect colonies, much as the Israelites had once been banned from Jerusalem. And, as if that were not enough, they hadn't given any thought to the habits of my kind; they had made all those proud, little rodents homeless. The one good thing about the whole business was that the apartment now looked incredibly clean. At least they had managed that.
After Gustav had fixed up something for me to eat (a clever mixture of lightly sautéed liver morsels and canned food), he went to bed early. He had slaved the whole day away like a miner, and began snoring the minute he hit the sack. I followed his example and got into bed myself. At this point, there's no way I'm going to mention for the umpteenth time the scientific reason why my kind sleep away 65 percent of our lives and why we are therefore exceptions in this age of yuppiemania and early risers. Suffice it to say (and this, too, in accord with scientific studies) that though people who stay in bed may not be the most successful people on God's earth, you're less likely to meet a genius among the early birds!
Since Gustav had finally brought himself to turn up the heat, it was now warm and cozy in the bedroom, and I immediately slid off into a deep sleep.
I dreamed that I was once again in that gruesome garage. This time, however, Deep Purple was not flat on his back but fully alive, and sat upright like a human on the seat of the Harley-Davidson. A powerful fountain of blood shot up in the air in a vertical column from the huge wound in his neck, then splashed down again, covering him and the motorcycle. It was a terrifying sight, just like you'd see in a horror version of a champagne ad.
A sardonic smile spread over the face of the zombielike geezer, and he gesticulated wildly with his front legs.
"This here is my damn territory!" screamed Deep Purple. "And I can still get it up! Take a look!"
He reached over his shoulder with one paw and pulled a kitten out of his bloody neck wound. The tiny kitten looked like a miniature version of its father and, afraid and helpless, looked around, blinking. Purple growled in triumph and gave the baby a powerful shake.
"And do you want to know why I can manage this? The latest, the most innovative treatment methods, my dear fellow. Spasmolysis, angiography, electrocardiography, organ transplants, fibrinolysis, injections, infusions, transfusions, needles, bandages, compresses, and and and … Yes indeed: medical care is the alpha and omega of old age! Nowadays without modern medicine nothing would work."
Suddenly he lifted up in the air the kitten that had had such a repulsive birth, and threw it like a baseball. With a dull thump, the baby hit the corrugated tin wall, leaving behind a huge bloody smear before falling lifeless to the floor. Purple broke out again in monstrous laughter, and thrust his hand into the wound to conjure up a fresh kitten.
"This is the way of life, this is the way of the world, my dear friend," the cruel father said. "If you want to live longer and still get it up at ninety-nine, then let modern medicine take care of your body."
He threw the second child against the wall as well. It hit hard and burst open like a balloon filled with red paint.
As if he were sitting on a turntable, Purple now began to turn around on his rump while constantly pushing his hand into the wound, pulling out new kittens, and throwing them against the garage walls like one of those machines that throw tennis balls. As his speed increased, the volume of his savage laughter rose more and more, until it finally grew into a roar.
"Hahahohohehe!" he cried out. "Get them to prescribe some pills for immortality and creams for potency! For potency! For potency! For potency!"
He turned ever more quickly, until he was only recognizable as a vibrating, contourless blur out of which these pathetic kittens shot without pause and—bam, bam, bam—slammed against the walls.
Within seconds, blood was pouring down the sides of the garage. The pile of kitten corpses on the floor became higher and higher, and there was a cloying smell like the smell of dead flesh in a slaughterhouse. Purple's screaming gradually mixed in with a ghostly howl similar to what I had heard in my first nightmare. This time, though, the howl didn't come from just one of my kind, but from many, very many.
It was about time for me to wake up; I didn't want these tender impressions to do serious damage to my nervous
