Payback's A....Kitty? or: Don't Screw With Naomi) Note: Part of this story is based on actual events which happened on the Burned Fur message board. The rest of it is based on listening to a very weird combination of songs, among which was Stevie Nicks' "Sometimes It's A Bitch." Any resemblance between characters and persons living or dead is *not* necessarily coincidental. * * * Naomi Diard's small, strong hands gripped the keyboard, thumb claws grating against the plastic. The sinews stood out in her spotted, gray-furred wrists, and she let out a sigh of exasperation. The twentyish clouded leopard--a career military officer--was admittedly not much of a diplomat. But she'd recently discovered a political group online who had some admittedly good ideas. The group's virtues, however, were overshadowed by the unfortunate fact that they had some issues with common courtesy. The author and the webmaster were both supposedly amenable to constructive criticism. So Naomi had posted a list of suggested revisions to their mission statement on the site's message board. Responses to her post had trickled in; most had been complimentary. But *most* was the operating word: One response had been rude--accusing her of "whining," no less. Naomi was of the mindset that Marines do not whine. So she'd posted a rather snarky response-- from a computer at a municipal center. Others had also put their two cents in--with varying degrees of annoyance at Whine Boy. One such counterpost--written by someone calling himself "Skimble"--had garnered its own snarky response. The anonymous post was vitriolic. According to the writer, Whine Boy was nothing but a loser, and he'd attached himself like a parasite to the website to get attention. And ironically enough, it had been posted by a municipal center patron, mere minutes after Naomi's response to a "B_DeLucca." Whine Boy had responded with: [Mr. "Ned"--No personal attacks. Especially anonymous ones.] Naomi had laughed it off at first. She'd replied that she really had no idea what he was talking about--and, while she was at it, she'd informed the silly fellow that she was female. He'd responded with: [Don't lie. I have search software. It came from your IP. How stupid do you think we are, Ms. Ned?] Naomi really did *not* appreciate being called a liar. So she'd informed him of the fact--and that she had been using a public computer, so he had no proof that she had posted it. Whine Boy had immediately dropped his veneer of decency. [Yeah right, you're not only a liar Ned, you're a shitty one. That wasn't a public computer. Everyone who comes on here with that "Why can't we all get along" crap has the morals of a whore, and you're the worst yet. Next time, don't post from a home server if you want to anonymously flame people. I don't know how dumb you think we are, but you're dumber.] That was way out of line. But she'd rebutted it anyway, and added an intimation that he was guilty of defamation of character--and a query as to why he continually referred to himself in the plural. Anyone with any sense would have shut up. But Whine Boy, apparently, *had* no sense: [You're a liar. It was from your little four-port home IP--NOT the library or that military base where your daddy is stationed. Show some shame and apologize, liar.] Naomi--who prided herself on *never* disregarding the first Core Value--was getting fed up with this twit's constant slurs against her honesty. [Oh, yes. I have *four* computers in my home. Get real. I never said it was from the library, silly. I posted *my* post from a municipal center--which *may* be listed as a home server, I've never bothered to check--and so did the anonymous flamemonger who called you a loser. It *is* a four-port server--bet *you* feel real smart to have gotten *one* thing right out of however many--and there is a *time limit* on the computers. Either the flamemonger used one of the other computers, or he got on after my time was up. But you know something? You've got a bee in your ear saying that I'm a liar, so you're not going to believe anything I say. It's obvious that you're playing a game here--you're trying to get me to confess to posting something which I, in fact, did *not* post. Then, I really *would* be a liar, and you'd have won. You want to believe that I'm an idiot and a liar? Fine. I don't know my tail from my elbow, and couldn't tell the truth to save my life. You want to believe that I consider you a parasitic loser? Fine. You're a bloated tick on the ass of society. Does that make you happy? Good. Now go away. Next contestant?] Naomi had not posted again afterwards. The twit, however, did *not* know when to give up. He continued to post disparaging comments on Naomi's courage, intelligence, and especially her integrity. Even after Skimble, B_DeLucca, and a new contributor had taken up the gauntlet and blown his argument to bits, Whine Boy continued to rant; his level of discourse, which had started at gutter level, progressively sank into the sewer. Naomi finally began shunning the messageboard out of disgust. A week later, she had more or less forgotten about the whole business. It was at about that same time when she decided to take her next liberty in a city a few states over. Upon arrival, she rented a room at a local motel which had Internet access, and started making use of a new laptop which she'd gotten a deal on. Whine Boy's talk of "search software" had piqued her interest. So she proceeded to try and track him down. *Two can play at that game, buster.* The result of her search surprised her. * * * That next morning, Naomi walked into an arcade/café/pool hall in a suburban area. "Excuse me, sir. Is there someone named Brandon who hangs out here?" The lynx manager nodded, rolling his eyes. "Yes, there is. Brown-and-white terrier." "Terrier?" Naomi had presumed she was looking for a fox--since Whine Boy described himself as a handsome tod online. "Not a white fox?" "No, he just brags about how he's got all of his online buddies *fooled* into thinking he's a white fox. Comes in here to play pool; throws a fit whenever he loses--which is often--almost never buys anything; annoys the paying customers; and always cadging money off of someone to buy cigarettes or beer. Obnoxious character." "Good." "You have a score to settle, I take it?" "Yes." "Just don't get blood on anything." The lynx was only half joking. About an hour later, as Naomi was quietly sipping a yerba maté, a group of rowdy young guys of about her own age barreled into the establishment. Among them was a slightly overweight, unkempt-looking wire-haired terrier in a dirty shirt and dirtier jeans. *And *he's* calling *me* a liar--after describing *that* body as a good-looking foxboy.* "Hey! Brandon!" Naomi announced. "Come here." The terrier's buddies hooted. Brandon wandered over to the table. "Hel-loooo. What can I do you for?" His pals snickered. Naomi stood up--revealing that the terrier was no taller than she. He didn't seem disconcerted. "What's *your* name?" he asked the clouded leopard's bustline. Naomi grabbed his shirt front with one paw and lifted him half a foot off the ground. Clouded leopards, for all their relatively small size, are very strong. "Don't talk to *them;* they don't have ears. As to my name--it's First Lieutenant Naomi Evelyn Diard, Marine Corps. It wasn't 'my daddy,' as you put it, who was stationed at Camp Duncan--it was me. If you think I'm lying--which you've been all too quick to accuse me of in the past--I can show you my ID card. Hell, I'll take you *outside* to show you the base stickers on my *van* if you need proof." The struggling dog looked as if he were about to vomit, wet his pants, or both. "W-what do you want?" he whined. He ventured a quick glance over at his companions as if looking for help. Naomi shook the dangling terrier a bit, eliciting a frightened yip from him. "What do you want, *ma'am*?" he amended. Naomi hadn't really been trying to shake the "ma'am" out of him--she'd been warning him against calling for help. But insincere as it was, the honorative was a nice touch. "I go by 'Ned' online." Brandon looked distinctly uncomfortable--after all, there was no longer a computer terminal and several miles between himself and the people he'd harassed online. Also, the fact that his buddies had no intention of helping him had finally penetrated his thick skull. "You may remember me. From that messgeboard? As I remember, you compared me to a *prostitute* once. You also called me a *whiner;* a *coward* at least twice; and a *liar* and *stupid* innumerable times." "Did I?" It's hard to look terrified and shifty at the same time, but Brandon managed. Naomi turned and shoved the terrier up against a wall. "Yes, you did. And you've also just made a hypocrite of yourself. You were about to deny that you called me names, *weren't* you?" The dog nodded as well as he could. "You were going to *lie* to me. It's good to see that my integrity has been questioned by such a *champion* of that virtue." Naomi dropped Brandon ungently. "Now get out of my sight--and if you *ever* insult me again, you'll wish you'd never been spawned." The terrier--who was sobbing by now--bolted out of the café at full speed, right into the middle of traffic. By some miracle (or disaster, depending on whose viewpoint you're going by) he was *not* mowed down by any of the passing cars. Brandon's buddies, who'd been staring in awe or shock at the entire exchange, retained a respectful distance from Naomi as she ordered a sandwich and another yerba maté. It was about now that she realized that her paws smelled like that filthy dog, so she asked the lynx the location of the "head." Naomi scrubbed her hands roughly with scented soap in the bathroom sink, then applied both towel and airdryer with equal vigor. *Now you've done it, Diard,* she thought to herself. *Going around intimidating civilians who happen to be dumb enough to call you *names*? You *can't make a habit of this.* But as she made her way out into the main restaurant, the cat realized that Brandon had it coming to him. And after all, he'd just ticked *Naomi* off--so he'd come out of the experience shaken but unscathed. If he'd hassled certain friends of hers, he wouldn't have been so lucky. Professional bodyguards, after all, have little or no need for a Marine officer's self-restraint. "What the hell," Naomi mused. "That punk did learn something today: "He learned that payback's not always a bitch. Sometimes...it's a *kitty*."