Disclaimer: Joss owns Buffy, Warner Brothers owns the Loony Toons.
Summary: The final battle in the decades long war.
Fifty-eight years. That’s how long it had been since he’d first laid eyes on his prey. Ever since that day back in 1947 when he’d been thwarted by the little stinker and his allies, the dog and the old woman, he’d tried innumerable times to achieve victory, but all for naught. Now, though, it would be different. Ancient power flowed through his frame, lending strength to his legs and claws and making his fur stand on end. Sylvester felt his teeth lengthen as he called on his vampiric powers. It was time for one last shot.
As his new mistress had predicted, neither woman nor dog proved to be a problem. Granny had quickly invited her beloved cat inside, and fell to his fangs within seconds. He knew he needed to finish her quickly; even in his new state, that broom was a fearsome weapon. It was the work of moments to gut Hector the Bulldog as he stood immobile in shock. So far so good, but just what Druscilla had meant when she started talking about “that stinking yellow warrior” right after that prediction, he had no idea. Maybe it was that blond slayer she was always ranting about.
Sylvester approached the bars of the cage, whiskers twitching in anticipation. So close, so close. The bird was huddled in fear in the far corner of the cage, as if he hoped a few more inches of distance would save him. The vampiric cat tore the bars apart and leapt upon Tweety Bird, who looked up, holding a... toothpick? As his body disintegrated into dust, the shocked Sylvester could only make out a single a sound. The bird was saying something.
“We lose more putty tats that way.”