Hmmm, did the headers come out twice? I can't remember if this list
does that automatically or not... Hi guys, trying to work my out of my
current bout with writer's block, thought it might be helpfull to test
out a teaser for something I'll be working on later. Awhile back I put
an idea out for a fic I tentavily titled Pigtails and Fedoras, sort of a
film noir, hard boiled Sam Spade kind of Ranma. Since then, it's been
done, and sadly, it has been done well. Still, I'm giving it my own
personal touch. This fic is done sort of like Cast A Deadly Spell, but
instead of bringing back black magic and vodoo upon return from the war,
this time, soilder's came back with ancient Chinese secrets. Lemme know
if you
think this is worth continuing...


  Kat's Meow... or Why Gumshoe's Hide Under Desks... Pigtails and
Fedora's Teaser


    Mist filled the air, a swirling smog of cheap cigars and cheaper
booze. You could almost hear the patron's thoughts, mentally begging for
a night's release from the pain. Bluesy strokes of the ivory teeth
soothed weary souls as they drifted deeper into the comforting dark womb
of the nightclub. Vices were picked up, like a favorite shirt from a
more youthful time, forgotten amidst an adult's life of meaningless
jobs, failed marriages and erased dreams. They were given a good shake,
smelled once or twice and then struggled into with tender nostalgia.
Yep, they still fit, maybe a bit tight around the waist, but oh so much
better then that all confining monkey suit. Be it wine, woman or song,
the Kat's Meow had it all.

    As the fog parted, the silken silhouette of a female emerged. The
music slowly began anew, heralded by the thrumming beat of a bass played
low and dirty... the club turned as one and watched the women as she
slid down the stage. Silk and sequence sparkled and men were once again
cheated coherent thought by the siren call of creamy thighs and over
abundant cleavage. She approached the microphone, letting her gloved
hand slip up it's shaft, causing an impromptu pulmonary arrest to table
five. Then her gaze made it's well practiced tour of the audience.

    A pout found it's way on her face... he wasn't here... again. Still,
the expression only fueled the flames around her, table eight had to
take it's medication, while the patron from table five quietly pleaded
for mouth to mouth. Her lips parted and the heated breath made it's way
past the tongue, through the amplifier and across the room, catching
sparks as they went. Then came the words, vowels and constants sung in a
throaty... well, husky... actually, it was less Jessica Rabbit and more
Betty Boop. While melodic, the voice lacked a certain sultry quality
that the body had in spades. Still, given that the drunken revelers
would one day be responsible for such things as karaoke and fuku's, it
really didn't matter.

    The wine was strong, the women were beautiful, and the song was
above average, all in all, not bad for a five spot cover. A few rather
well spirited, in every sense of the word, patrons raised a toast and a
smile to the owner... then quickly turned back to the singer. Though
Shampoo's angelic form reminded one that heaven was only a payday away,
the owner's face reminded you what hell layed waiting home that night.
Dante hadn't had the stomach for the angry housewife, disapproving
mother-in-law portions of purgatory.

    Cologne, the Great Godmother, smiled her knowing smile and sipped
tea as she watched it all from her table. That's it, bring me your
tired, your broken hearted, your easily earned, easily spent cash to me
and my girls, the poor could bloody well bugger off. She looked
approvingly at her star. My pretty tigress, how many heart's shall you
rip free tonight? Looking around, she amused herself with the multitude
of love sick eye's as they swallowed every drop of her main attraction.
Of course, Shampoo's love was not for sale, but someone more
accommodating could always be arranged, and if company was not sought,
why not another glassful while you enjoy the show?

    Her girls had been weak  when they had left China, the Triad fed
them scraps while demanding a fatalist's service and loyalty. Fierce
jungle beasts, being made to fetch and carry, all the while clawing at
the ever tightening collar. Not anymore, in Japan, were only house cats
shared the same hunting grounds, they grew strong, paunches swelled as
did purses. And should their old master's ever seek their feral pets,
they would find war with the Yakuza not to their liking. Yes, the
matriarch smiled, for all the insanity running through the Kuno family
tree, it was most assuredly a safer perch then most.

  That's odd, she thought, why is that patron suddenly gone so pale? And
that one, fear replacing lust, with equal if not greater intensity.
Looking behind her songbird, she saw the cause. There he was, a dagger
dancing in his right hand, a look of simple lethality on his face,
Mousse sent his own piercing gaze through the throng... missing most of
the patrons and instead hitting a potted plant. He seemed upset that the
leafy club goer met his gaze so evenly. Mentally, he added the fern's
name to his never ending list of "They shall ALL pay!"

    Cologne sighed. At least no one here had a clue as to his
stigmatism. To them, he was simply the enforcer, a twisted man who liked
to play with his victims before their bloody demise. No one knew he had
honestly thought the nearby furniture had been his intended target. The
man was good, almost too good, enemies ending up dead and buried before
their animosity had been accurately confirmed, but he just wouldn't wear
his damned glasses. The things had cost her quite a few plug nickels and
it infuriated her even more that he had looked on her gift as some sort
of insult. Even worse, he saw Shampoo as his own, a prize fairly won.

    This is not to say she was completely against the idea, the merger
would produce remarkably beautiful, remarkably strong, remarkably
lethal... and remarkably blind... children. He even managed to look
quite debonair in that tight fitting tux and long black hair draped over
his shoulders. Still, the fact remained, her tigress had no interest in
the assassin. That and the small matter of him being, in many ways, an
idiot. Besides, another man had already fastened his leash about
Shampoo's fearsome neck and she preened as though it were made of
diamond.

    The same man the femme fatale had searched the crowd for, the same
man whom Mousse was currently mistaking that rather unfortunate club
member for, the same man whom had refused Cologne's invitation for a
tenth consecutive night. Ranma Saotome, where was that dick?

    Turns out he happened to be hiding beneath his desk at the time. You
see, his name was Ranma, and he was sort of a private investigator,
though trouble shooter is more like it. Most guys like him, they have
drinking problems, you know, this brother got killed on this night
because that guy caught him sleeping with that person's donkey... you
know the drill. A sob story gutter fall that led straight into lake Jake
Daniels, who made remarkably good sake. Not him, he only wished it was
all that simple. You see, he had a women problem, no scratch that, he
REDIFINED women problems...