::Slowly, Fat Cat's mind claws its way up from unconsciousness. He is still wet, but doesn’t know where he is. The first thing he is aware of is that he is moving. The second is the sound of rushing water gurgling by. When his yellow eyes flutter open he can see that he is on a piece of plywood, sailing through a maze of sewerage canals with its eddies and backflows. The smell, now that he remembers he can smell, is best forgotten::

Fat Cat (groggy): No telling where I am now. At least I got away from those wretched Rangers. Now, maybe I can guide this thing to—what in...

::He hears whispers::

::Someone is down here, off in the distance. The deep, graveled voice echoes, rising and falling as Fat Cat starts paddling with his feet to move his makeshift raft toward the whispers' source. Now he can also see a bright yellowish flicker, marking the movements of whoever it is.

Fat Cat is closer to the source of the noise now and the whispers become discernable::

(raspy, guttural): [i][b]We hates the mouse, Precious. The mousey tricks us. The mouse took away what was ours.[/b][/i]

::The voice is slightly above a whisper, as if sharing dark and foreboding secrets. Fat Cat manages to use his feline stealth to noiselessly approach the illuminated chamber. Inside is a massive alligator dressed in rags, surrounded by all manner of debris one would expect to find in a sewer. The gator sirs on a beaten, broken old recliner in the center of the chamber::

::Occasionally he would pick something up and throw it at a battered and yellowed old poster of Mickey Mouse on the wall. Then he would cradle a small glowing object in his hand and talk to it softly, as if to a child::

Gator: [i][b]They all lied to us, Precious. But we'll make them pay. We'll make the mouse pay, then we'll make the cats pay too.[/b][/i]

::The hulking green form glanced to another part of the wall, toward a barely recognizable “Cats Don't Dance” poster and the solitary gator featured on the poster art::

Gator: [i][b]As soon as I fix the typewriter, we'll make them all pay![/b][/i]

::He reaches over and pats the rusty old black manual Underwood typewriter next to his chair::

::Fat Cat reaches solid ground, his eyes never leaving the object in the alligator's hands. At first, the behemoth doesn't seem to know he is there and Fat Cat clears his throat::

Fat Cat: You having typewriter problems?

::With remarkable speed the gator whips around and snarls at the intruder::

Gator: [i][b]We don't like visitors, Precious! He's here to steal Precious. They all come to steal Precious. [/b][/i]

::After a few moments of threatening posture, Fat Cat's words finally reach his tortured brain::

Gator (suspicious): [i][b]Typewriter? You can fix Precious' typewriter? So Precious can write his stories?[/b][/i]

Fat Cat (jovial): Yes. Yes, of course! Why, I can see in what a sorrowful state you are, deprived and unable to write. I would be glad to fix your typewriter for you, uh, Precious.

::The alligator’s glowing eyes never leave Fat Cat's. He slowly lumbers toward the old typewriter, still clutching the glowing object tightly, but his attitude seems to change::

Gator: Yesssss, fix Precious' typewriter, yessssss! We'll give you lots of monies for fixing it, yessss.

::Fat Cat heard the gator's insincerity but he already knew what he would do. An old toolbox lay on the ground nearby and Fat Cat grabbed a flathead screwdriver and wedged the typewriter's cover off::

Fat Cat: My, my! This typewriter hasn't been fixed in years. While I work, you can tell me about yourself. What's your name?

::The alligator looks at the feline in surprise for a while, as if the idea of a name hadn’t occurred to him. Then he appears lost in thought::

Gator: I had a name... before Precious...

::The gator looks around at the sewer::

Gator: It was something very familiar... something that I was always around... but can't remember... but we remembers the mouse that tricked us!

Fat Cat: The mouse? A mouse tricked you?

Gator: Yes, he tricked us! Many, many years ago, the mouse lied to us, tricked us, made us disappear! We hates the mouse and hates the vermin who serve the mouse, but we'll show them all. Precious will make them all pay!

::Fat Cat pretends to tinker with the typewriter. He has no real mechanical skill, but he is able to put the keys right and tighten up the ribbon on the spools. With a satisfied smile he replaces the cover and dusts off his hands::

Fat Cat: There, I think it's fixed. Would you like to try it?

::The reptilian keeps a wary eye on Fat Cat as he hesitantly takes a sheet of rotten old paper and puts it into the machine. He experimentally hits a few keys and let out a joyous cry as the words appear on the paper. Soon his attention grows more absorbed by the typing, using one hand to hunt and peck while the other clutches his precious. Eventually he grows so frustrated at the slow progress he puts his treasure aside and begins typing frantically with both hands::

Fat Cat: Oh, that's wonderful! Keep going.

::Now the alligator is totally absorbed with his work and with the crafitness born in his soul Fat Cat silently pockets what is clearly now a golden acorn. Just as silent, he strides off to the water's edge and regains his plywood raft. Chuckling inwardly, the crime kitty paddles away, not noticing the slight trail of ink that his stained paws leave, anointed by the remnants of what had been on the typewriter ribbon. Already the object in his pocket glows with power and thoughts enter his mind::

::Fat Cat appears to be listening as the golden acorn glows brighter than dimmer::

Fat Cat: So, his name was Al. I suppose that fits him. You know the way back to the Hall? Good, good! Once we get there, we'll have a real performance to give for all those Rangerphiles!

::The object glows brighter still, for it is the lost mystical golden acorn. Fat Cat could see himself as the hero in every great role of history and never doubted it for a moment::

Fat Cat: It's so wonderful...all stories will be about me. All will finally worship me! Me!

::The felonious feline laughs in a strange tone as he continued through the sewer. Soon the only sounds are the echoing clicks from an old typewriter::