Marmalade: The Follow-Up – A Queen’s Notice

 

Marmalade: The Follow-Up – A Queen’s Notice

Weeks passed after that rainy night behind the auto shop.

Marmalade kept his word. He watched from a distance — rooftops, fire escapes, the occasional shadowed alley corner. He never approached Ember or her kittens directly. He simply made sure the world stayed a little safer for them.

He buried more tainted super-corn when it appeared. He chased off stray dogs that got too curious. Once, when a particularly bold raccoon crew tried to muscle in on Ember’s scavenging territory, Marmalade orchestrated a quiet counter-offensive: he led the raccoons on a wild goose chase through three dumpsters and a prickly rose bush until they gave up in frustration.

Ember never acknowledged him. But she started leaving small things in places only he would find — a particularly plump chicken wing on a clean piece of foil, a shiny bottle cap balanced on a fence post. Little offerings. Quiet thanks.

Marmalade pretended not to notice. A king had his pride, after all.

Then came the night everything shifted.

It was pouring again — the kind of relentless rain that turned alleys into rivers. Ember was moving her kittens to yet another new den. The old one had flooded, and the little ones were cold and miserable. Ash, the bold striped tom, was leading the way when disaster struck.

A loose grate in the street gave way under his tiny paws. Ash tumbled into the storm drain with a terrified yowl. The current was strong. Ember dove after him without hesitation, but the water was rising fast and she couldn’t reach the kitten while keeping the other two safe on the ledge.

Marmalade dropped from the rooftop like an orange thunderbolt.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He landed in the rushing water, his larger, heavier frame giving him better purchase against the current. With powerful strokes and sheer stubborn will, he fought his way to Ash, grabbed the struggling kitten by the scruff, and hauled him back to the ledge where Ember waited with wide, desperate eyes.

The other two kittens were safe but shivering. Ember took Ash immediately, licking him frantically while Marmalade hauled himself out of the drain, soaked to the bone and looking far less regal than usual.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ember turned those sharp green eyes on him.

“You’ve been following me for weeks,” she said softly. “Helping. Protecting. Never asking for anything. Why?”

Marmalade shook water from his thick fur, trying to reclaim some dignity. “Because you made it clear you don’t want a tom complicating your life. I respected that. But I couldn’t just… do nothing.”

Ember studied him carefully. The rain had plastered his once-glorious coat to his frame, making him look both ridiculous and strangely vulnerable.

“You’re a fool, fancy cat,” she said, but there was no bite in it. “A big, soft-hearted fool.”

Marmalade lifted his chin. “Former champion. And currently… concerned citizen.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at Ember’s mouth. “Concerned citizen who just saved my son from drowning. Again.”

She set Ash down with his siblings and stepped closer. Close enough that Marmalade could smell the rain on her fur and the faint warmth beneath it.

“I still don’t want a man living in my den,” she said quietly. “I’ve got three kittens who need stability, not drama. But… I wouldn’t mind knowing there’s someone watching my back. From a respectful distance. Someone I can trust.”

Marmalade’s heart did that embarrassing flip again.

“I can do distance,” he said, voice low and steady. “And I can do protection. No complications. No expectations.”

Ember reached out and touched her nose briefly to his wet cheek — the smallest, quickest gesture.

“Then we have an understanding, Marmalade.”

She gathered her kittens and disappeared into the rain once more, but this time she glanced back just once.

Marmalade sat alone in the downpour, soaked, muddy, and happier than he’d been since his championship days.

Tail over head.

Still completely undignified.

But for the first time, he didn’t mind at all.

From that night on, the protection became mutual in its own quiet way.

Ember would occasionally leave better scraps in places she knew he patrolled. Marmalade would make sure no tainted corn or dangerous strays ever got near her territory.

They never shared a den.

They never made promises.

But in the alleys behind the Velvet, a fallen king and a fierce alley queen had reached a careful, respectful understanding.

And somewhere in the shadows, Dave the Little Detective was already taking notes for the inevitable story he would tell at the Rusty Nail.

Marmalade would deny everything, of course.

But his tail gave him away every single time it puffed up at the mere mention of her name.

Marmalade: Tail Over Head

Marmalade: Tail Over Head

Marmalade had long ago accepted that his days of glory were behind him. The ribbons were gone, the crystal bowls sold off, the perfect Persian coat now carried the faint scent of alley dust and old rain. He was content with his place at the Rusty Nail — occasional belly rubs for chicken, the best stool at the bar, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he was still the most regal creature in any room he entered.

Until he saw her.

Her name was Ember.

She was a sleek little tabby — lean muscle under soft brown-and-black stripes, white socks on her paws, and bright green eyes that missed nothing. She moved through the alleys like liquid shadow, running a small but efficient crew of street cats who kept the rat population in check and made sure the weaker strays got at least one decent meal a week. No drama. No begging. Just quiet competence and a fierce independence that made Marmalade’s heart do something embarrassing and undignified.

He first spotted her one rainy evening behind the Velvet club while waiting for his usual (and strictly transactional) chicken scraps. Ember was dragging a torn garbage bag away from a group of aggressive raccoons, hissing and swatting with precise, economical movements. She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t need it. When one raccoon got too close, she boxed its ear so hard it yelped and retreated.

Marmalade, perched on his usual crate like a deposed king, felt his tail puff up involuntarily.

“Tail over head,” he muttered to himself, mortified. “Absolutely undignified.”

He started watching from afar.

Every few nights he would find excuses to patrol the same alleys she worked. He told himself it was reconnaissance — the super-corn pipeline had been showing up in restaurant waste lately, and someone had to keep an eye on it. In truth, he just wanted to make sure she was safe.

Ember had three kittens — tiny, bouncy things with her stripes and her fearless attitude. She kept them in a well-hidden cardboard den behind an old auto shop, guarded fiercely. She never let any tom get close. “I don’t need a man complicating things,” she’d been heard telling other alley queens. “I’ve got enough mouths to feed and enough trouble already.”

Marmalade understood. He respected it.

So he protected her from a distance.

When a pair of aggressive stray dogs started sniffing too close to her territory, Marmalade arranged a quiet intervention. He led them on a wild chase through three blocks of alleys until they were exhausted and lost, then doubled back to make sure Ember and the kittens were untouched.

When a shady delivery van started dropping off suspicious corn-laced scraps near her usual scavenging spots, Marmalade spent three nights carefully burying the tainted food and replacing it with clean restaurant leftovers he’d “liberated” from the Velvet’s back door.

He never let her see him.

One night, though, he slipped up.

Ember was moving her kittens to a new den during a heavy rainstorm. One of the little ones — a bold striped tom named Ash — wandered off and got stuck in a narrow drainage grate. Ember was frantic, trying to reach him without collapsing the grate.

Marmalade couldn’t stay hidden.

He dropped from the rooftop, landed gracefully despite his size, and used his larger frame and stronger paws to carefully pry the grate open just enough for the kitten to scramble free. Ember snatched Ash up immediately, licking him furiously while shooting Marmalade a sharp look.

“You’ve been following me,” she said. Not a question.

Marmalade sat back on his haunches, trying to look dignified even while soaked. “Merely ensuring the neighborhood remains… civilized.”

Ember’s green eyes narrowed, but there was the faintest hint of amusement. “I don’t need a knight in shining fur, big guy. I’ve been running these alleys since before you lost your last ribbon.”

“I know,” Marmalade said quietly. “That’s why I stayed back. You don’t want a man around. I respect that. But if trouble comes… I’ll be close enough to help without getting in your way.”

Ember studied him for a long moment. The rain plastered her fur to her lean frame, making her look even smaller and fiercer.

“You’re that fancy show cat who fell on hard times, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Former champion,” Marmalade corrected with as much dignity as a wet Persian could muster. “And currently… concerned citizen.”

She gave a soft huff that might have been a laugh. “Concerned citizen. Cute.”

Marmalade’s tail twitched in irritation at the word “cute,” but he let it slide.

Ember gathered her kittens closer. “I’ve got three mouths that need feeding and no time for romance. But… thank you. For the grate. And for not pushing.”

She turned to leave, then paused.

“If you’re going to keep watching from the rooftops like some lovesick gargoyle, at least make yourself useful. There’s a new batch of that weird glowing corn showing up in the dumpsters behind the Chinese place. Smells wrong. Makes the rats act too calm. You see anything, you let me know. From a distance.”

Marmalade dipped his head in a small, formal bow. “As you wish.”

Ember disappeared into the rain with her kittens, leaving Marmalade alone on the wet pavement.

He sat there for a long time, tail curled neatly around his paws, feeling something warm and ridiculous bloom in his chest.

Tail over head.

Completely undignified.

But for the first time since his championship days, Marmalade didn’t mind the fall.

He would protect her from afar.

He would keep the glowing corn away from her kittens.

And if she ever changed her mind about wanting a man around… well.

A king could wait.

 

 

The Rusty Nail Prank Contest

It started innocently enough.

Thursday nights at the Rusty Nail had always been loose, but this one felt different. Someone (most suspected Big Mike) had scrawled “PRANK CONTEST – $200 pot, winner takes all” on the big chalkboard behind the bar. Rules were simple: one prank per person, must be harmless, must be witnessed by at least three others, and no permanent damage to people or property. The crew voted by secret ballot at closing time.

The usual suspects were all in.

James Brogan leaned against the bar with a fresh beer, already regretting his life choices. Major John Rush sat quietly in the corner, nursing black coffee and looking like he was calculating escape routes. Dave the Little Detective perched on a stack of coasters, tiny notebook open, clearly taking this far too seriously. Marmalade claimed the best stool, tail flicking with regal disdain. Vinny “The Weasel” Capello occupied his usual shadowed booth, face carefully turned away. Ellie “Sparks” Ramirez was grinning like she already had a plan. And Leo Brogan — James’s father, ponytail still intact — had decided to stick around for a few more days and was now laughing with Big Mike like they’d known each other for years.

Big Mike kicked things off by taping a whoopee cushion to the underside of Marmalade’s favorite stool. When the big orange cat jumped up, the resulting sound echoed through the bar like a dying trombone. Marmalade’s horrified expression sent everyone into hysterics. Even Brogan cracked a smile.

Marmalade’s revenge was swift and elegant. He replaced Dave’s plastic-straw cigar with an identical-looking one filled with wasabi. Dave took one confident puff, turned bright red, and spent the next five minutes sneezing glitter (leftover from his strip-joint adventure) while everyone howled.

Ellie went high-tech. She rigged the jukebox so that every time Vinny tried to play one of his favorite old mobster ballads, it switched to “Baby Shark” at full volume. Vinny’s silent, murderous glare as the song blasted for the third time was worth the entry fee alone.

Leo Brogan, the old firefighter, proved he still had it. He waited until Brogan stepped away to the bathroom, then swapped his son’s beer with one that had a tiny battery-powered motor hidden in the bottom. When Brogan picked it up, the bottle started vibrating wildly like it was possessed. Brogan nearly dropped it, then stared at his father with pure betrayal while the whole bar lost it.

Dave’s entry was surprisingly devious for someone his size. He spent twenty minutes carefully placing tiny “Kick Me” signs on the backs of everyone’s jackets using double-sided tape and his magnifying glass for precision. The best part? He signed each one with Marmalade’s paw print (lifted earlier with ink from the bar stamp). Marmalade spent the rest of the night indignantly denying responsibility while people kept “accidentally” kicking him.

Vinny’s contribution was pure Weasel. He somehow convinced the bartender to serve everyone “special” shots that tasted normal but turned their tongues bright blue for the next two hours. No one knew how he did it. No one dared ask. Vinny just sat in his shadowed booth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Major Rush, true to form, kept his prank simple and surgical. While everyone was distracted, he replaced all the toilet paper in the men’s room with sandpaper-grade stuff he’d brought from his truck. The resulting string of creative curses from Big Mike ten minutes later became instant legend.

Brogan’s own prank was quiet and mean in the best way. He waited until Marmalade was dozing on the bar, then gently tied a single helium balloon to the cat’s tail with fishing line. When Marmalade woke up and jumped down, the balloon floated him halfway to the ceiling like a grumpy orange parade float. The cat’s indignant yowling while drifting above the pool table had everyone crying with laughter.

In the end, the votes were tallied.

Dave won the $200 pot by a narrow margin — mostly because his “Kick Me” campaign had caused maximum chaos with minimum effort. Marmalade immediately demanded a recount and accused everyone of bias.

But nobody really cared about the money.

What mattered was the night itself: Leo Brogan telling war stories from the firehouse, Ellie arm-wrestling Big Mike again, Vinny quietly slipping extra rounds to the table without showing his face, Rush allowing himself one rare half-smile, and Brogan sitting back with his vibrating beer, watching his estranged father laugh with the same misfit crew that had somehow become family.

For once, the ghosts stayed quiet.

The pranks were silly. The drinks were strong. And for a few hours on a random Thursday, everyone at the Rusty Nail was just playing ball — not dirty.

Brogan raised his bottle toward the chalkboard.

“Best damn Cheaters Night yet.”

Leo clinked his glass against it, ponytail swinging.

“To family,” he said quietly. “The one you’re born with… and the one you choose.”

The bar cheered.

And somewhere in the back, Dave was already planning next week’s contest.