Chapter 28: Mardi Gras

Cat strode into my den laughing her head off on the phone. Sprawling in the chair across from me, giving her normal good byes to Rachel, “McClaren flew to D.C. for a meeting. Rachel listened to their opening offer and made a call to her hair dresser letting him know she was on the way and walked out of the meeting.” The amused teen laughed at her lover’s antics. “Rachel didn’t even take the offer with her nor did she say anything to anyone on the way out, dropping the visitor’s badge in the trash next to the security station right before leaving the building. The whole time in the elevator, she was talking to me on the phone wondering if she should change her hair style.” Slapping the armrest, “She couldn’t have acted ditzier if she tried.”

“Rache called me back after talking to Gretchen. They had planned it all, since McClaren was intentionally wasting their time. They even tried to get a couple dozen batteries for free, ‘to test; making sure they were road safe’.”

“Good experience for her then,” I commented.

“Yeah, Gretchen said the same thing. It’s not like we need their business. BMW is still gobbling up over thirty five percent and the UF Auto industry has put another kibosh on electric cars with increased restrictions on EV battery regulations under the guise of the NHTSA. Nippon has finally sent someone to meet Rachel. Nissan and Toyota, first. That was why she was in D.C. No one else in Asia or Africa is even trying to make high end EVs. Although I heard that Xhina made an appointment to see if they can get some for their new bus project.” Cat scowled with the last thought.

“That’s not completely true, now that most of the UF universities have a sample or three of the spare capacitors. Gretchen sold those for 50k each. I think she mentioned something about tax write offs. EPI is now offering a single Capacitor to each university worldwide that wants one at full price. The same deal for any non-corporate buyers. She already has a huge waiting list.”

“Speaking of Taxes.”

“LA♪LA♪LA♪LA♪LA♪LA♪ ... I don’t wanna hear it.” The teen clapped her palms over her ears hoping against hope.

“Tomorrow we go to Peabody’s and sign our yearly taxes.”

“Can’t you sign for me? You did last year.”

“A one-time commission is much different than owning your own company.”

“Taxes suck.”

“Agreed.”

...

“Nice to see you again Gretchen.”

“I hate you.”

“See, it’s not just me.” Cat gloated by my side in the waiting room of Peabody’s office.

“I take it the proof helped?”

“Why do I even bother ... yes it helped. Why couldn’t you have told me that years ago?”

“You didn’t ask and I didn’t know you years ago.”

“Give up Gretchen, you can’t win with him. Just think of him as the world’s biggest Jerk, hording all that knowledge and mocking us.” ‘And a huge Jerk for making me sit through taxes with Mr. Peabody.’

“It was your choice remember?”

“Shut it.”

“Miss Larkin, Dr. McCraken, if you would come this way please, we are ready for you now.”

...

“ ... How much!??” ... I watch my student learn a very hard fact of life. The government wanted it all, or at least as much as they could get away with.

...

... “Master, can I borrow your death ray?”...

...

“Dr. McCraken, thank you for your presence today. EPI is in good shape.” ‘With 100 mil banked after dividends and taxes it should be’. I thought. ‘Now the fun part.’

... “I so-oo hate them all...”

... “But you said I could...”

... “Why am I getting taxed twice for...”

... “What do you mean Charitable donations are capped at...”

... “I give. Where do I sign.”

...

“Do villains pay taxes, and is it too late to be one?”

“Moria pays taxes.”

“She sucks too. Accountants are worse than Mr. Peabody. I didn’t think that was possible.” I didn’t bother holding in the laugh that followed that remark, knowing I would get hit either way.

Thunk.

I was right.

“Where are we going? I am NOT in the mood for pizza.”

... “Essex County range? ... Maybe this might not suck. Let me guess, my shotgun is in the trunk?”

“It is.”

“This is the first time you let me shoot in public.”

“You’re eighteen.” I explained her question away with that simple answer. “As long as you don’t miss, you should get more fans.”

“You suck for not telling me earlier.” Replying to my taunt while removing the case and tote out of the trunk, Cat allowed me to lead the way.

The late Wednesday arrival drew eyes, as Cat lugged her case while I was stuck holding the bag. Not so strangely, the assembled rugged looking customers, probably law officers since they all carried similar sidearms and holsters, made way for the teen to approach the counter which Cat accepted with grace and, I wagered, more than a bit of irritation from the attention.

“Excuse me, I would like two boxes of twenty-four 12-gauge slugs and the use of the range for an hour please.” Handing over her license she politely asked the scruffy attendant.

The man behind the counter looked at me first then at my student. “Any particular brand?”

“No thank you, today is an adjustment shooting.”

“Will you need targets?”

“No thank you, I brought my own.”

“Lane 48, that will be...” the bearded man behind the counter passed over two large boxes which I scooped up.

Giving me the LooK, as if the customers wanting to see how she would do was my fault, she turned to address the assembled members. “It’s fine if you want to watch,” she told the curious assembled group, before heading out the side door.

Amused laughter chorused among the twenty off duty officers. Of course, that did not stop the curious men and women from following. Their shooting contest could wait a little while to see a young woman in skintight leathers shoot her shotgun.

Cat’s B-range M4 semi auto silver and black custom shotgun had one significant improvement. The revamped gas piston stock saved wear and tear on her less than sturdy shoulder.

On the table provided, she placed a white table cloth down before opening the gun case. Earmuffs, glasses, and visible throat mic were donned first, followed by checking the barrel and gun itself for any changes since its last use. Seeing none, Cat loaded six rounds, ignoring her audience.

Running our white titanium alloy (#19) plate out to twenty-five feet, Cat slowly took her stance. Knee bent, feet properly spaced, hands in the proper location, she drew the butt against her shoulder, counted to three and breathed out.

Bang. “Six to the left, down two inches.” I called out.

Bang. “Seven to the left, down one inch.”

Bang. “Seven to the left, even.”

Bang. “Six to the left, up one inch.”

Bang. “Seven to the left, up one and a half inch.”

Bang. “Seven to the left, up three inches.” A little off.

She reloaded and continued. This time she focused on the right side but was a little less accurate.

Bang. “Five to the right, down two inches.”

Bang. “Seven to the right, down one inch.” then eight then nine, still staying below the bullseye concentrating on maintaining her lines.

After twelve shots she needed a break, or her shoulder did, even with the added assistance of her stock. Cat was still not used to the repeated shocks, even after months of practice. The thick towel over her shoulder for extra padding did seem to help some.

“Ugh, I think I need to either shoot more, like I have time for that, or build a better shock absorber. I wonder if I used the system from GB2 that...” and off she went.

“Did you teach her how to shoot?” One of the officers asked.

“No, I have a deputy friend that comes over on Tuesdays for a couple hours when he can.”

“How long has she been shooting?”

“October. I found out that it is a good stress relief for her.”

“Juan, give it up. Let Miss Larkin and her teacher be.” The oldest of the bunch chimed in while Cat was busy scribbling on her tablet.

“I’m just saying she could be good. What harm is there in that?”

“Before sticking your foot in your mouth, why don’t you ask the young lady what she is working on?” The smooth smile and wrinkled eyes behind his yellow shooting glasses gave way his intent.

Ignoring the obvious trap, the thirtyish officer stepped forward and asked while looking over Cat’s shoulder. Most of the onlookers started snickering at the clueless man since they recognized the name if not the person.

Cat, being Cat, replied absently to the dark-haired officer’s question instantly overwhelming him with ‘forces, torques and ablative measures’. As soon as the first equation was brought up, he retreated.

All delivered in a sweet sounding, absent minded tone.

“Why is everyone standing around looking at me?” she mumbled to me five minutes later after completing her self-imposed task.

“They never saw a girl do physics at a shooting range I guess.”

“Jerk.” ‘Why did you let me do that?’

Her shoulder was too sore to finish all forty-eight shots, but she did get most in. Cat even tried shooting a set of four left-handed with less than desirable results.

And Catherine’s legend grew.

...

The four of us landed at a private airport an hour outside of New Orleans. Clarissa had arrived in time to tag along at my request. A taxi ride dropped us outside of the Franco quarter where we walked the rest of the way to our hotel on Bourbon St shortly after five. The large, run down double suite, was not up to anyone’s, besides Clarissa’s, standards.

“What a bunch of spoiled princesses. Get over it. A room is a place to hang your clothes while you’re out seeing the sights.” Our resident Inhuman berated her fellows. “And you. I hope you packed something other than suits.”

“Covered,” announced Catherine’s betrayal of my wardrobe. Instead of slacks, I was instructed to wear jeans and causal brown dock shoes.

“Franco Market today. Hope you had your flea shots. And KittyCat, don’t forget your hat.”

Grumbling at the need, Cat chose a USAF hat received in trade from the F-15 pilot who initially escorted us on their first trip in the Car. Captain Markin received a signed picture of her sitting on the hood waving at the camera. I believed it was her first official autograph.

“Don’t call me that!” My student protested a full minute later after donning the blue cap and slightly oversized sunglasses she picked up somewhere in hopes to disguise herself from recognition.

The large outdoor market was packed with tourists browsing, haggling, dancing and bopping in rhythm in time with the many Jazz artists scattered throughout the stalls.

Handmade knickknacks, along with some mass made junk was included in the stalls’ inventories. Most, if not all, were hand sized and easily portable. The exceptions were the artists’ portraits or exceptionally large items such as dolls and clothes. Costumes were limited to a few locations. Voodoo dolls and paraphernalia were in abundance.

Clarissa was particularly dismissive of the fakes, but fell in love with the tiny dolls, regardless of authenticity. Rachel liked the costumes and the hats and Cat was acting strange. She seemed nervous. After her fourth time scanning the crowd in just minutes, I understood the issue.

Leading her by her stiff shoulder to a side entrance next to a large Voodoo supplier, “Catherine, I am here. Nothing will happen to you. Relax.”

“There’s a lot of people here.”

Catching her eyes and her full attention, “There are. New Orleans is having a party, and they invited all their neighbors. Have your parents ever had a block party?”

“yeah.”

“Think of this as a bigger one. Can you do that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Cat, it’s like a big dance hall. Just dance with us and not them. They don’t matter.” Rachel suggested from my left.

“Dance clubs are even more densely crowded, aren’t they?”

“yeah.”

“Listen to Rachel. We are here for you.”

“What’s up with KittyCat?” Clarissa showed up holding a mini voodoo doll the size of her palm with orange hair, white face and black eyes.

“Too many people bumping into her, I think.” Rachel replied, concerned about her lover who looked shaken and was too quiet.

“I know a decent restaurant a few blocks away. Let’s grab some food.” Taking Cat by the hand, Clarissa led us to a busy place a few blocks away out of the main thoroughfares.

Slipping a fifty to the hostess, we were led to a table that was in the process of being cleared. Cat looked in horror at the general level of cleanliness of the busy seafood joint.

My overwhelmed student sat against the wall with me next to her, holding on to my arm for dear life while trying to acclimate to the multitudes of unwashed masses. Not successfully.

“Four gumbos, diet coke, iced tea no lemon and two Guinness,” were ordered for us by our guide.

The coke, and beers arrived in bottles with straws, the iced tea in a can, with a straw. Even Cat loosened up enough to chuckle. Not that her eyes lost any of their wildness.

Bread arrived five minutes later, soaked in butter with small cups of melted butter on the side, in case you weren’t happy with merely drowned buttered bread slices. The shredded parmesan was in a plastic container, aka Italian chain restaurant.

As Cat was fond of saying, I would eat anything. Apparently so would Clarissa.

The terrified girl next to me tried to wipe off some of the excess butter with her napkin, much to our amusement. Rachel didn’t even bother with the bread.

Minutes later, four steaming, quart sized, cracked pottery bowls were delivered by our waitress who still hadn’t spoken a word to us.

Barely submerged rice on one side and overfilled seafood on the other with a hearty broth filled the steaming bowl.

“This is good,” I noted. Our Inhuman guide grinned before digging in. The other two blew across their dishes to cool them off, each sampling the exposed crayfish before continuing on.

“It’s a local place. We are far enough off the parade track that there aren’t many tourists.” Clarissa supplied between slurps. “It’s kinda expensive though and a little greasy, but I like it.”

Neither Cat nor Rachel consumed more than a half of their gumbo, Cat sticking with the rice and Rachel eating some of everything. Wanting to cheer her up some, I stole Cat’s bowl when I could tell she was finished, placed it in mine and started eating the rest.

“I was not finished with that yet.” I received the hoped-for elbow.

“Right.”

“At least you could have asked.”

“‘It’s more fun this way.” I repeated one of her often-used phrases.

“Jerk.” ‘Thanks, I think I’m better now.’

“Show us your Voodoo doll, Lissa.” Rachel chimed in, since speaking was now allowed. We had been eating in silence in difference to Cat’s earlier issues.

The little thing was obviously hand made with deliberate imperfections. Rachel’s question opened up the field for more questions and observations. We stayed a while chatting. I had paid the bill earlier including an extra fifty for the waitress for the added time occupying her table.

Next, we were led to an outdoor puppet theater with Cat leaning against my chest holding on to Rachel’s hand with the other. I ignored the initial wince from the redhead, from Cat’s unusually hard grip, asking how the third of our gang was doing with her absorption of my blood.

“Twenty percent left. You changed me you know. It’s as if I suddenly aged these last months.”

“Any negative side effects?”

“Besides the burning and itching and feeling like I am about to explode. None I can think of,” she added sarcastically.

“Good.”

“Any thoughts on my request?”

“Not until you are clean.”

I received the LooK from both Cat, who peered over her shoulder resting against me and Clarissa from my wording.

“You know what I meant.”

“Shut it and watch the show.” Turning to have both shoulders pressed against my chest, Cat’s attention returned to the puppets. Not that I believed for a second that she was enthralled by the childish performance, even if the topic was not suitable for young children. Whoever said that Mardi Gras was a month for children never saw this performance.