And that’s why half an hour later I found myself in the nearest little dump of a restaurant, having been practically flogged out of the Ren Faire, perhaps forever. My burger had just come when I saw someone walking in, his head turning, looking for someone. Under his arm he carried a cardboard box with holes in the top. Out of the largest hole a familiar-looking paw, with claws fully extended, poked out.
It was him, that Scotsman, still in his kilt, with my cat. Behind my eyes I could feel the heat and smoke of anger rising like someone had poured gas on it. But then I saw him touch my cat’s paw in the softest, silkiest way, and I saw his eyes flicker with something and in his voice when he asked, “Is this your p***y?”—where I expected to hear jovial buffoonery, I heard the timidity of th
