Femme Fatale Pt. 1

>You’ve had textbooks’ worth of financial planning and budgeting skills drilled into your head by your parents over the years. Or at least, enough to see this coming at least two paychecks away, and thus, plenty of time to feel dread ahead of time.
>It was time for today’s mental tallying of your upcoming costs. Each one taxing your dwindling cash supply, like the ghosts of future expenses were haunting your bank account.
>Rent was due by the end of the week, but you were already running a risk of missing another car payment, and you have to go grocery shopping today before the coupons that have been covering your ass expire. And it isn’t even text book buying season yet.
>In short, you’re not broke, but oh boy you’re about to be.
>You could ask for a bit of an extension on your rent, get on your hands and knees and promise you’ll pay on time the next time around. Except, well…
>Your landlord scares the shit out of you. Not in a nightmarish monster kind of way, or even like how the crusty bulldog janitor from middle school scared you with his creepy ass stank eye. You just can’t let your guard down around the woman, no matter how hard you try to relax.
>It’s like every signal she gave off, every bit of body language you picked up, added an unspoken “Or else” to anything she said. Even when she laughed it felt like she was putting everyone around her on eggshells.
>You even confided in your neighbors about this and they all feel the same. That white furred cat scares the shit out of every one of her tenants, even the ones never caught sober.
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>It could be the way that she always smells like a combination of cigar smoke and gunpowder. It might be the fact that she’s never alone, always with at least two goons by her side whenever she drops by the apartments to collect rent personally. She called them her ‘nephews’ before, but half the time they weren’t even any kind of feline.
>What gets to you is the eye patch, and the scar underneath it. A heavy piece of leather with bolts covering her eye, with a slash shaped path of scar tissue tracing underneath it down to her cheek.
>The only people with that kind of scar are movie villains, but there it was, resting right on her permanently smirking face. Always grinning like she knew something no one else did.
>Sometimes, in a lapse of survival instinct, you let yourself take a look at the rest of her. She had the body of a retired fighter, something you noticed whenever you saw her wearing something that showed off her body. Toned, but with a bit of extra wrapped on top that showed she wasn’t particularly maintaining it. The stupid part of you was curious how it would feel to squeeze, but the more intelligent part of you reminded yourself how much you liked having hands.
>You’ve seen her claws, too; most felines these days get them at least shortened, but you had seen hers when she was dragging them against the cheek of the otter that used to live next door to you while she was informing him of “How….upset…” she would be if he missed another rent payment.
>She was no big cat, but you’re pretty certain she could probably pop her fingers into someone’s throat and pull out their wind box like some kind of slasher movie. For some reason, you’re certain that the color red is no stranger to her fur.
>Sighing, you pull yourself off your futon, and make some distance between you and the coffee table covered in various notices explaining how they intend to remodel your wallet’s plumbing.
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>Grabbing your keys and stuffing them into your pocket, you head out into the day to get your grocery shopping done before the thousands of other broke bastards in the city buy up every piece of discount ground beef that can be found.
>Turning the handle on your front door a couple times to test the lock, you pull out your phone to check the time. If you’re lucky, you might make it in time for the post-lunch rush discounted sandwiches from a deli down the way. That’ll get your dinner plans sorted before sundown, you think as you start walking down the steps to the parking lot.
>”Anon.”
>You recognize the voice immediately, and just by saying your name, your landlord almost kills you.
>You almost miss the next step down, almost fumble your phone out of your hands while trying to recover, and you’re pretty certain the sheer surge of adrenaline gave your heart the necessary jump starts it needed for each of the four times it stopped by the time you both caught your phone and saved yourself from falling headfirst down the staircase.
>Taking a deep breath, you look up to the sky to wordlessly thank whatever is out there that just saved you from turning into a piece of abstract art representing the struggle of the working man. Exhaling, your attention turns to see her standing on the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs with her arms crossed.
>Ariannis Labbate, your golden haired landlord and current audience to your brush with death. And judging from the toothy grin on her face, she finds it hilarious. Goddammit; only a cat could almost kill someone and think it was funny.
>”In a hurry, are we?” You can hear the barely restrained laughter behind the question. She’s got jokes, apparently.
>Shaking your head in response with one hand firmly on a guard rail, you start making your way down the stairs, “No, ah ha, I was uh, about to go grocery shopping, maybe pick up some dinner on the way home.”
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>Nodding as if pleased with the answer, she waited, singular blue eye on you as approached. Her arms were still crossed, but her tail flicked back and forth as she watched.
>Passing knowledge of feline body language reminded you that meant she was interested in what she was seeing. In any other cat, it would make you curious. Seeing your landlord eyeball you as you got closer only made you hold your breath and hope she would find something else to look at.
>You take the time to look around the parking lot. There’s some people a few apartment buildings down, bustling around a car. The Borils, you guess. It looks like the usual pack of mice children swarming while their parents try to corral them into the family van.
>What gets you is the fact that there isn’t a single one of her ‘nephews’ in sight. Her convertible is right there with the top down, and there certainly isn’t anyone else in it. Did she come here alone?
>Eventually you run out of steps and land on the sidewalk next to the feline woman. The usual smirk isn’t on her face, and it looks like she’s considering something. She had the whole walk down to start a conversation, but she kept silent on your descent.
>Might as well bite the bullet and deal with this before your heart just gives up and you keel over out of stress. “What’s up, Mrs. Labbate?” What if she’s here to tell you stay out of the house while she kills your noisy ass neighbors? You would be down for that, at least.
>”I wanted to talk to you about your rent situation.”
>Oh. She’s here to kill you, instead.
>You wonder if your dad thought you were serious about the stupid catch phrase you joked about having put on your headstone.