The cat purred a little, but more like it was clearing its throat.

“To the evil lair!” she cackled, pointing a slender, evil finger toward the large set of windows in the wall.

“You know, you don’t have to be overly dramatic like that. Honestly, I could say that came straight from an Adam West Batman movie or something. You know, ‘Puurrrrr-fect.’ From a cat. Honestly.”

It took the woman a full two minutes to figure out that the words came from the furry feline below her.

“Kitty?” she sort of squeaked, cocking her head.

“Who else would it be? Or did you drop your father in the vat as well?”

“No, no, just the Thames,” she said absentmindedly. This cat could prove a big furry problem. If it constantly contradicted her, it could ruin her image. But, she thought, it did emerge from the vat alive and healthy.

And talking. Yes, the talking.

“And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me kitty. Pepé LeRouche will work just fine.”