A motley screw of miscreants a screaming cat parade who refuse to live in any home when games yet to be played. Slinky shoulders, smirking felines Gents upon their beats. The alley throbs a violent red as traitors made to bleed.
These cats are made to live in streets. Their bravery's unmatched they live by tooth and smoking gun. Their thanks, a tip of hat. They think and breathe, all drunk on jazz and games of cards, in fact they love this life, this game of chance where they die by honest claw and hate to expire in a lap.