Spinning Spark Batted Mid-Air; Carlos Stripped of All Artillery

The perp was new, plastic, and had the kind of stoic, empty-headed look that screamed "trouble." The human placed him square in the middle of my territory—the oriental rug that so beautifully complements my gray fur. He stood there, an garish effigy of yellow and blue, an affront to the tasteful decor of my home. His official designation, according to the dossier my human read aloud, was "Carlos Kitbash." A builder. An interloper. I began my standard procedure for new arrivals: a slow, deliberate circling, my tail twitching like a metronome counting down to his doom. My first move was a test of his defenses. A swift, surgical strike with a single claw unsheathed. The so-called “removable helmet,” a flimsy attempt at disguise, popped off his smooth head and skittered under the armchair. He didn't even flinch. A tough nut to crack. He just stood there, clutching his primary weapon: a "power welder." He was waiting, daring me to make the next move. This silent standoff was his fatal error. It gave me time to assess his weakness, to see the telltale blue button on his device. That's when his accomplice, the human, intervened. She picked up the silent sentinel, her giant finger descending upon the blue button. There was a faint click, and then—*whizz!*—a spinning disk of red plastic shot from the welder, ricocheting off the leg of the credenza with a satisfying *thwack*. So that was his game. Not a silent warrior, but a coward who relies on ranged weaponry. The human launched it again, a high arc toward the kitchen. This was no longer an interrogation; it was a disarmament operation. I allowed her to launch it one more time. The red "spark" spun through the air, a fleeting ruby comet in the afternoon light. I was no longer interested in the plastic man. He was merely the cannon. The spinning projectile was the prize. In a blur of gray and white tuxedo, I launched myself from the rug, my leap perfectly timed. I batted the projectile out of the air, pinning it to the floorboards beneath a victorious paw. It was light, cheap, and utterly conquered. I glanced back at the now-unarmed Carlos, held aloft by the giant. Pathetic. He's no hero. He's just a glorified pez dispenser for things I can hunt. He can stay, but only as long as he continues to provide tribute.