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Rex sprawled across his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling as the rooster’s crow faded into a smug cluck outside his window. “Fifty-something loops, and I’m still poultry in motion,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side with a groan. The burnt-toast smell wafted in like an unwelcome guest, but this time, Rex didn’t flinch. He had a plan—or at least half a plan, which was a solid upgrade from his usual zero. The tuna factory fiasco had proved Captain Catastrophe wasn’t invincible—just really annoying and prone to dramatic monologues. If Rex could disable the Doom-Meow-Tron before it activated, he might skip the whole dying-in-a-fiery-explosion part and finally get a nap.
He leapt up, bare feet slapping the linoleum, and spiked his mohawk with a dollop of gel from a jar labeled “Chrono-Grease: For Hair That Defies Time.” “Looking purr-ty good, Rex ol’ boy,” he said to his reflection in a cracked mirror, winking at the punk staring back. “Time to rewind this mess and kick some kitty tail.” He grabbed his leather jacket, zipping it up with a flourish, and bounded downstairs, where Penny waited in the cramped hallway, arms crossed, her perm a frizzy halo of doom.
“Rent, Rewind,” she snapped, tapping her foot so hard the floorboards creaked. “Now.”
“Penny, my penny-pinching pal,” Rex said, hands on hips like a discount superhero, “how about a deal? Help me stop Captain Cat-astrophe, and I’ll pay you triple—inflation included! Think of it as an investment in your future landlord empire.”
She adjusted her glasses, peering at him like he was a tax form with too many errors. “Triple, huh? Fine. But no more puns—they’re a liability I can’t afford.”
“Deal on the cash, no promises on the puns,” Rex said, dodging as she swatted at him with her newspaper. “They’re my chrono-logical lifeline, Penny. You’ll thank me when they save the day.”
She sighed, tucking the paper under her arm. “Fine. What’s the plan, genius?”
“Simple,” Rex said, leading her out the door into Chronopolis’s morning madness. “We hit the captain’s lair, nab his remote, and turn his kitty into a purr-manent paperweight—all before lunch. I’m craving tacos, and I’d rather not die hungry again.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The city greeted them with its usual insanity, a cacophony of honking horns, screaming heroes, and the faint buzz of robo-pigeons plotting their next aerial assault. A hero on a unicycle juggled flaming torches, nearly setting a flock of bystanders ablaze. A villain in a tutu spray-painted “Ballet Is Chaos” on a bank wall, twirling away as security drones gave chase. Rex dodged a runaway shopping cart piled with cabbages, grinning like a kid at a carnival. “Love this city,” he said. “It’s a real time-bomb of fun—keeps you on your toes or blows them off.”
They reached the tuna factory faster this loop, sneaking through a side door that hung off its hinges like a drunk leaning on a lamppost. The stench hit them like a tidal wave—salt, rot, and regret—but Rex powered through, whispering, “Stay fish-ient, Penny. We’re close to the catch of the day.” Inside, Captain Catastrophe was mid-monologue, pacing before the Doom-Meow-Tron as his minions played cards, oblivious to the world.
“Time to pounce,” Rex said, spotting a mop propped against a wall in a janitor’s closet. He grabbed it, wielding it like a lance, and charged into the open, shouting, “Hey, Captain Cat-egory Five! Your reign’s about to get swept away—prepare for a clean sweep!”
The captain spun, his monocle glinting under the lights. “You again? You’re a purr-sistent pest, Rewind!”
“Flattery’ll get you nowhere,” Rex quipped, jabbing the mop at him. The minions rushed forward, but Penny hurled tuna cans with the precision of a disgruntled accountant, shouting, “Eat fin-ancial justice, you deadbeats!” One thug slipped on fish slime and crashed into a barrel, out cold. Rex twirled the mop, knocking another minion flat. “Nighty-night, tabby!”
Captain Catastrophe slammed the control panel, and the Doom-Meow-Tron roared to life, its whiskers humming with deadly energy. “Say meow-t to your maker!” he cackled, as lasers fired in wild arcs. Rex ducked, the mop sizzling to ash in his hands as a beam grazed it. “Well, that’s mop-tastic,” he muttered, diving behind a crate.
Penny lobbed another can, missing the captain by a hair. “Nice fin-esse!” Rex called, scrambling for cover as the robot’s claw swiped. It caught him, pinning him to the wall with a crunch. The captain loomed, grinning. “Any last words, punk?”
“Yeah,” Rex wheezed, mohawk drooping. “You’re a real cat-ch-22.” A laser whisker zapped him, and—darkness.
The rooster crowed. Rex sat up, rubbing his neck. “Okay, mops are officially out. Time for Plan Cluck—bigger, bolder, and with fewer cleaning supplies.”