"GRAAAAAVVVVEEEESS!"

Now that the prerequisite had been fulfilled, Graverobber (the G-man, in some circles) ambled casually out of the graveyard. A team of GenCops dropped from the sky (or ceiling?) and began to blunder around blindly while the graveyard's stage-lights created a convenient path for the criminal. Whistling, he turned down an alleyway and headed for home, smelly home. On the way he gave out a few glowing glass vials, received sexual favors from Amber, and passed a few fangirls who had been eagerly camped out at the Zydrate Support Group for 3 days for the chance to talk to him—of course, the moment he uttered a word they both shrieked and collapsed at his feet. All this adoration was making Graves hungry, so he stopped in Taco Bell. Rotti Largo was inside, buying a bag of soft tacos to throw out of his very tall tower, so he could watch them hit passersby.

Upon seeing Graverobber, Rotti did a double take, and exclaimed, "You can't be here! You're a criminal!"

"I'm sorry, what?" Graves turned his attention away from the cashier who was passing him a large paper cup and her phone number.

"I said, you're a criminal! You're—you're wanted, for Christ's sake! How dare you come in MY restaurant!" Rotti's face was turning a rather frightening shade of purple as Graverobber looked generally nonplussed about the whole situation. "Do you KNOW who I AM?"

"Well, as I, you know, invented your character, I'm really not all that worried."

Rotti sputtered inarticulately.

"And, you know, as I created this world, and everything about it, I could pretty much wish you out of existence if I wanted."

"I'll have you know-!" Started Rotti violently.

Graverobber turned away and Rotti disappeared in a puff of greenish, slimy smoke. He found himself duck-taped to the top of the GeneCo tower, in his drawers. This would be very difficult to explain to the Henchgirls.

Graverobber collected his meal and left, ready to get back and take a catnap in his favorite trashcan.

Except there was already someone taking a catnap in it. To be precise, it was a cat.

Before Graverobber could manage a "Who the &*%$ are you and why are you in my &*^%ing dumpster?" the creature stretched, yawned, and turned two lazy, heavily painted eyes upon the bemused Zydrate peddler.

"Oh my!" He (or She, or It—our hero was rather uncertain on this point as of yet) exclaimed very fruitily. It was definitely not a normal cat—Graverobber might not have what you would call a "conventional" fashion sense, but he definitely knew that this much spandex and face paint were not normal. Perhaps some radical new plastic surgery? He tried to determine if this was Amber under the makeup and afro, but it didn't look like her. If it was, there would certainly be no screwing. He might have odd hair and makeup, but at least he had standerds.

He/She/It scrambled to his/her/its feet, and, after running a hand through his/her/its spiky hair, the creature leapt with astounding dexterity onto the rim of the dumpster in a wide squat, and belted out, "Are you blind when you're born?"

He then waited, frozen, for several seconds. Graverobber was still in open-mouthed shock, but the creature eyed him, then stuck a hand (paw?) out and nudged him. Garnering no response, the cat sang in a high falsetto, "Can you see in the dark?"

Graverobber now presumed the beast was male, not from its voice, but rather from the view he was getting of the creature's tightly-spandexed crotch. Said male looked down at Graverobber again, expectantly, then heaved an annoyed sigh and sang, "Are you tense when you sense, there's a storm in the air?"

"Actually, yes, as I generally sleep in dumpsters, such as the one you are STANDING ON—"

The animal continued as if he hadn't spoken: "Can you say of your bite, that it's worse than your bark?"

Graverobber smirked. "Well, I don't mean to brag, but I've been told—"

The cat-man-thing bellowed somewhat louder while looking over Graverobber's head: "Do you know how to go, to the Heavyside La—"

"Okay, SHUT UP. What the hell is this, Twenty Questions?"

Catman glared at him, then leapt off the dumpster and landed with legs set wide and jazz hands held high, then nearly shouted "BECAUSE JELLICOSE CAN AND JELLICOSE DO! JELLICOSE—"

Whatever else Jellicose could and did do would remain a mystery, as at this point Graverobber punched the his unwelcome visitor soundly in the face.

On the ground, the creature clutched its carefully painted, and now rather misshapen, nose and moaned in a very non-feline way. "Oh God…Oooowww…" Graverobber wiped his hands, saying, "Stay out of my trash, freak."

To his astonishment, the cat-thing staggered back to his feet and tried to continue the dance routine.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The creature did not answer him, but kept stumbling in manic jazz squares and muttering "Gotta keep the eight count, gotta keep it—and ONETWOTHREEFOUR! FIVESIXSEVEN—!"

Graverobber rolled his eyes sexily, and bent over to slap the creature. Hard. It fell to the ground again.

The cat-man-thing glared up at Graverobber and said, in an Cockney accent, "Why the bloody 'ell did you do that?"

"Because I have Zydrate to collect and sheltered teenage girls to de-flower, and I had better have a warm, smelly, EMPTY trash heap to come home to. And I do not, ever, need to be serenaded by some spandexed pussycat. If you want someone who's interested, go find the Largos."

"Bloody rich for YOU to be complainin', as ye went off and left us and we've been lookin' about for ye for a fortnight!" The man (it apparently was human under all that paint and glitter) hoisted himself to his feet, and tried to stifle the blood pouring out of his nose with his tail.

"Um, what?"

"Well, we can't bloody well get on the show without precious RUM TUM TUGGER, can we, 'speshly wot with two of Deuteronomy's own daughters missin'—barely out o' kittenhood, can't you EVER restrain yourself, you blasted 'orny fool?—and all the o'er females mewling and cryin' loike they've lost there favorite toy…" He seemed to be working himself into a fine lather, so Graverobber raised his hand again.

"Whoa! 'Ey! I been slapped around enough t'day, mate!"

"I'm not your 'mate'. I don't even know who, or what, you are." And what did he call me? It sounded like a sexual lubricant.

The man looked at him in astonishment. "But—the crazy hair. The jacket. The females following you around. You—ya 'AVE to be Rum Tum Tugger!"

"No, I don't. Now get out of my alley."

"But—"

"GO!"

The Catman looked doubtful, but also wary of getting any further pummeled. "Well…are ye sure ye 'aven't seen 'im about? Ye know…Looks a bit loike me, but with bigger 'air? Moves 'is hips about a lot?"

The comment gave Graverobber inspiration.

"You know, I think I have. He was hanging around downtown, I think…let me give you the address." Graverobber whipped out a pencil, paper, and his monocle, and scrawled down some directions.

"Oh…Aw'right, then…" The Catman finished mopping up his nose and took the scrap of paper. "Well…Oi'lle be on me way, then."

He shashayed down the alley and turned (in a pirouette) out of sight.

Graverobber sighed and settled into his dumpster. There sure were some weirdos in this city. But now it was time for rest…

Before he fell asleep, he privately imagined how explosively ecstatic Pavi would be to find a singing, dancing, androgynous male wearing a Cheetah-print leotard on his doorstep. And exactly how long before the Catman found himself wearing a thong and handcuffed to pink, fluffy bed. He grinned.