“That’s right,” said one of the camera crew. “You know the saying ‘safety first’?”
The Mysterious R and I glanced at each other and nodded.
“Well, we don’t say that here,” said the producer. “You go out there, shake paws, and then let loose the cats of war. Winner takes all. Loser takes all kinds of hurting.”
I took a deep breath. The Mysterious R looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Then we strode out together, under the glare of bright lights and a sea of cheering cats. Some yelled, “Mysterious R rules!” Others yelled, “Go, Mr. Puffball, go!”
We arrived at the starting square, where we’d begin our race to fame and fortune.
But first, the paw shake. I looked into the eyes of the Mysterious R, hidden behind a face-covering mask. I thought I saw a familiar sparkle there, almost like . . .
Focus, Mr. Puffball!
We assumed our places, our bodies tensed with anticipation, our fur slicked aerodynamically down, tails streamline straight. The starting bell rang out—
CLANG!
And we were off on a series of death-defying challenges that went something like this:
Climb the Slippery Ladder of Tallness.
Fly over to the elevated Wobbly Board
Cartwheel across the Wobbly Board.
Slide down the Rough Rope of Rope Burn.
Leap across the Pit of Angry Snakes.
Ascend the Wall of Hot Spikes.
Launch into free-fall to the Platform of Narrowness.
All along the muscle-straining, suspense-filled course, the Mysterious R was right there beside me. I could hear my opponent breathing hard, smell his sweat, and see him matching my awesomeness step for step.
We arrived at the finale: the Ultimate Kung Fu Challenge.
Hi-yah! Power kick! Fists of fury!
It was a fierce battle indeed. Sweat poured down my face, continued down my neck, and dampened my bow tie. The Mysterious R was super-fast. One brutal flash of paws, and I was down. The count began. It looked like I was the day’s biggest loser after all.
Then I remembered Rosie. Sitting at home, whispering something like, “Don’t be a wimp, Mr. Puffball.”
That was all I needed. I leapt up and delivered a kick like the world had never seen before, and the Mysterious R was down. The referee counted off . . . five, four, three, two . . . ONE!
I was the winner!
And the crowd went wild. The announcer said, “We have a new Feline Ninja Warrior champion. And his name is Mr. Puffball!” A staff cat ran over and handed me a giant check for one million dollars.
That’s right. I was rich.
Television cameras were everywhere. I was famous.
“And now,” continued the announcer, “we must ask the former champion, the Mysterious R, to relinquish the Feline Ninja Warrior champion medallion.”
The Mysterious R placed the medallion over my head. I wondered who was behind that mask. Was it one of my rival stunt cats? Victory McTabby, perhaps? Rollin’ Thunder? Ragnar?
I had to know. One of my paws extended to shake paws like a good sport, the other reached up and yanked the mask off the Mysterious R. And that’s when I got the biggest shock ever.
I was rich. I was famous.
And I had just bummed out my best friend.
5
The Joys of Stardom
In the weeks that followed, I was so busy enjoying my fame and fortune, I didn’t have time for one of those heart-to-heart conversations with Rosie that she-cats like so much. I did, however, send a bunch of flowers with a thoughtful note:
I’d wanted to clear things up between us on the night of my victory. I ducked into the dressing room to change out of my warrior bow tie and into my celebrity bow tie. But when I emerged, looking for Rosie among my gigantic crowd of fans, she was nowhere to be seen.
Then came a whirlwind of star-worthy activities. First there were the TV appearances. Everybody wanted to know about the real Mr. Puffball.
Next were the magazine articles, complete with photo shoots that brought out all my best sides.
And the merchandise. My goodness, the merch was awesome.
Best of all, everywhere I went, cats of every stripe recognized me and begged me for my autograph. All day long I heard, “Mr. Puffball, sign my autograph book!” “Mr. Puffball, sign my napkin!” “Mr. Puffball, sign my tail!”
All this me-time left no room for old-friend-time.
If they wanted to see Mr. Puffball, superstar, they’d have to call my secretary, just like everybody else.
Also, all the money I’d won helped me make a life-changing realization: I needed to buy stuff. The list of expensive stuff I needed was so important, I decided to write it out as a list. I called it:
EXPENSIVE STUFF I NEED
A huge neon sign for the old MGM Studios, with the words “Home of Feline Ninja Warrior Champion Mr. Puffball” in blinking lights
An extensive new bow tie collection, including ones made of raw silk, fine velvet, and free-range cashmere. And one that had been worn by Leonardo diCatprio in The Great Catsby.
A hand-carved, solid oak bow tie closet
A floor-to-ceiling fridge stuffed with daily deliveries of 100 percent organic milk, all the anchovy pizza I could eat, white truffle oil yogurt mouse tails, etc.
One giant gold star to hang on my bedroom door
A life-size portrait of moi, painted by a world-famous artist
A platinum watch that told the date, the temperature, and the number of fans in the vicinity
And, of course, a gold limo. Not gold-painted. Not gold-plated. It was a limo made entirely of gold.
Pickles begged me for a ride, but gold limos are not for kittens. Kitty, Chet, and Whiskers also wanted rides, but do you have any idea how much elderly cats shed? Even Bruiser asked me to help him pick up some gym equipment, but my limo was not a service vehicle!
There was one cat I did want in my limo: the adorable Rosie. So after I hired a driver strong enough to turn the wheel, I went to visit her. She’d forget she was ever mad at me for stealing her Feline Ninja Warrior championship once she sat in my limo and had a glass of gold-speckled, ice-cold sparkling water.
Her front door swung open, and my heart skipped a beat.
Focus, Mr. Puffball!
I shook off that weak-in-the-knees feeling and stuck out my vintage silk bow tie. “Why, hello there,” I said in my most manly voice. “Long time no see, Rosie.”
“Not since Feline Ninja Warrior,” she said, crossing her paws across her chest.
I laughed heartily. “Ha ha. What’s a little kung fu fight between friends?”
The sun hit my limo, and Rosie held up her paw against the blinding glare. Then she reached out, pulled me into her home, and assumed the kung fu stance.
“I’m game,” I said, readying myself for another match.
I stood and dusted the humiliation off my fur. So far, the visit was not going as I’d hoped. “Too bad you didn’t do that the night of the show.”
“I want to be honest with you, Mr. Puffball,” she said, slumping onto the couch. I sat down next to her. “The producers told me to throw the game. They said a cat who wouldn’t take off her mask could never be famous. But I wasn’t after fame. You were. They insisted I let you win, or they’d find a way to disqualify us both.”
I shook my head, shocked at what I was hearing. “It can’t be. . . .”
“If it had been anybody else, I wouldn’t have done it. I hate dishonesty. I hated throwing the game. That’s why I asked you not to be on the show.”
She let me win? Impossible. I was a star ninja!
“I’m sorry to say this,” I said, “but I don’t believe you.”
“When have you ever beaten me in a kung fu match?”
I thought back to the many times we’d sparred. I’d never beaten her at kung fu. Never. But if she’d thrown the game, what did my stardom mean?
I stood abruptly. “I have to go. Somebody s
omewhere wants my autograph.”
Rosie looked past me, out the window, to where my limo was sparkling in the sun. “You know how I was going to spend my money, if I’d won?”
“On a life-size portrait of yourself?” I asked. “All the best stars are doing it.”
She strode over to her front door and opened it. “I wanted that money to write, produce, and direct my dream project. About the life of a humble stunt cat. One who had lots of talent and even more heart. Without that money, my dream is over. Even worse, it looks like that humble stunt cat doesn’t exist anymore.”
I moved to the doorway and gave her my best superstar look. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. But I’m here to offer something even better: a ride around town in my solid gold limo. Let’s dazzle the nobodies.”
“I can’t,” said Rosie. “Because I am a nobody.”
With that, she slammed the door, before I could explain that any friend of mine couldn’t possibly be a nobody.
I sank into my gold velvet seat and told my driver to drive, just drive, anywhere would do. While deep in thought, a call came in on the limo video phone. It was Victoria Bossypaws, commander in chief of Purramount Studios.
Sidekick? I hadn’t made my way across the country from my small town of New Jersey, befriended and then alienated El Gato, trained with Bruiser, and won the Feline Ninja Warrior championship to become a sidekick.
“Call me back when you’re looking for a star,” I said. “Because I’m Mr. Puffball. And I am a star.”
I hung up just as my driver pulled into a gas station. “The tank is empty again, sir. I’ll need some money to fill it up.”
“Certainly, my good cat,” I said, whipping out my diamond-studded wallet. I opened it. And discovered something truly horrible.
One million dollars. All gone but one. And I’d just turned down a chance to costar with Chris Purr-att in a blockbuster movie.
6
The Agony of Rock Bottom
As my driver walked away from my grounded gold limo, muttering something about going back to law school, I considered my options.
Call Victoria Bossypaws back and beg to be in that movie.
Sell a million autographs for one dollar each or one autograph with really good penmanship and possibly a doodle for one million dollars.
Go back to being a stunt cat.
Never! I would never go back to being a stunt cat. I had moved on to bigger and better things, like reality TV, cashmere bow ties, and gold limos.
I called Victoria Bossypaws.
I almost sank into despair, right there in the backseat of my gasless limo.
Focus, Mr. Puffball! You’re too good to give up. I still had option number two.
Time to sell some autographs. I abandoned my gold limo until I could raise enough money for gas, and walked the long quarter mile to a park in downtown Hollywood. Along the way a pebble got lodged between my toes.
Could this day get any worse?
I plucked it out, found the park, and settled onto a bench. Then I carefully crafted a handmade sign and waited.
A large group of cats soon spotted me. They pointed and waved and surged my way. Success!
“Hello, fans!” I called as I whipped out my gold signing pen.
The cats made a sharp left turn. My eyes followed and saw who was on a nearby bench, stealing my limelight.
Suddenly there was a fluttering sound. I glanced up as a bird swooped down and grabbed my expensive bow tie right off my neck!
“Hey!” I yelled. “Get your own fashion accessories!”
I had nearly given in to despair when a shadow fell across me. I looked up into the face of an eager young cat. I could almost feel that one hundred dollars fattening my slender wallet.
This insult to my superstardom was the final straw.
“Good day, madam!” I said, leaping up and storming out of the park.
Only a fancy feast could cheer me now. I headed toward my favorite restaurant, Pacific Dining Cat. Then I remembered the lone dollar in my wallet and steered myself to the cheapest diner in town:
The smell of anchovies frying in recycled oil hit my nostrils like a slap in the nose. I sat in a shabby booth in the back. As soon as my butt touched the seat, I felt something unpleasant. The duct tape covering a hole was peeling up and sticking to my fur. I shifted over and studied the menu.
What could I buy with just one lonely dollar?
“One kitten-size milk and a day-old cracker,” I ordered. Behind the waitress, somebody swooshed past.
I glanced up and just caught sight of a fez and well-groomed stripes. El Gato! Without noticing me, he plopped down in the booth behind me.
I heard the crinkly snap of a newspaper being opened and an unhappy groan. I peeked over my shoulder.
I opened my mouth, then remembered we weren’t speaking. And yet I longed to talk to my old friend.
We could talk . . . as long as he didn’t turn around.
I disguised my voice by lowering it an octave and said, “What’s the problem, bub?”
“Hollywood has forgotten me,” said El Gato. “I was a big star—one of the biggest. But lately, the studios aren’t calling. The directors don’t want me. Nobody even asks for my autograph anymore.”
“Hollywood is the worst,” I said.
“This town chews us up and spits us out like chewing gum,” said El Gato.
“And then we find ourselves on the bottom of somebody’s shoe.” I sighed. A big one. “I was rich and famous for a few weeks. Now it looks like my career is over before it really began.”
“Have you been in anything I might have seen?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I muttered. Should I tell him who I was? First I wanted some answers. “And what have I seen you in? Any reality shows?”
“I was on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars. . . .”
“Were you really?” I asked, feeling the old resentment bubbling up.
More crinkling as El Gato put down the newspaper. “No,” he admitted. “I wasn’t really. I had something else to do, so I tricked my best friend into going on in my place.”
“Like an old piece of chewing gum,” I said. “That was rude. Very rude.”
I heard El Gato’s cape rustling as he shifted sideways to peer at me. The jig was up. “I know it was rude, Mr. Puffball, but . . .”
“No buts!” I ripped my fur free of the duct tape, all ready to stand and deliver a speech, but somebody showed up to ruin the moment.
“Is this one of those fake and phony reality shows?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Brock Showman. “The Castaway Island experience is very real.”
The Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars incident flashed through my brain.
“Sounds awesome!” I said. “Except one of us thinks he’s too good for reality TV.”
“Are you too good for two million dollars?” asked the TV producer.
El Gato and I locked eyes. His wallet sat on the table, looking almost as slender as mine.
“Will there be food on the island?” asked El Gato.
The producer laughed. It sounded like an evil laugh, but I chose to ignore it and focus instead on the two million dollars. “Of course there will be food! Enough for you and all of your friends!”
“Plenty of sunshine too, I bet,” I said.
“Picture this,” said Brock Showman. “Two weeks on a lush, tropical island, filled with beautiful flowers and tasty coconuts, surrounded by the endless blue sea. Hear the lapping sound of waves rolling in to shore as you and your friends compete—more like play games, really—in a competition to see who will win two million dollars.”
“And eat the most shrimp,” said El Gato.
“Here’s your chance,” said the producer, “to win back your fans and maybe win two million smackers. We want this show to focus on friendship—so we’d like you to invite your friends. You do have friends, don’t you?”
My brain remembered all the times I’d refused to wash th
e dishes or let my friends ride in my limo. But they’d love me again if I let them appear alongside me in an island paradise reality show where we got to play games, eat coconuts, and listen to the surf!
El Gato and I jumped up at the same time.
7
The Whole Gang
Seven is a magical number. Seven days of the week. Seven Hairy Pawter books. The seven stripes of Seven Stripes (a cat who lives in the neighborhood).
It was also the number of cats they needed for Celebrity Castaway Island. Fortunately I knew seven cats who would be up for the adventure:
1. Moi
2. El Gato
3. Rosie (aka the Mysterious R)
4. Chet (movie director)
5. Whiskers (dancer)
6. Kitty (singer)
7. Bruiser (Hollywood trainer extraordinaire)
7½. Pickles (Pesky Kitten)
True, Pickles only had a bit part in Mac & Cheesy’s Excellent Adventure. But being an adorable kitten was its own kind of celebrity. Plus Brock Showman had seen Pickles in some stupid video and insisted he come along.
Now El Gato and I had to convince our friends that they wanted to be on Celebrity Castaway Island.
First we looked over the list of rules the producer had given us.
True, some of my friends (Chet, Whiskers, Kitty) were elderly and could not handle the Feats of Strength. And Bruiser had an unfair advantage as the strongest cat in Hollywood and possibly the world. Pickles’s extreme cuteness might work against me. And I was a little nervous about the monkeys. Yes, Hollywood monkeys were all right. But monkeys in the wild had a reputation for being, well, pretty wild.
Escape from Castaway Island Page 2