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It’s rare for anything to surprise me.   When you’ve been around as long as I have (which you won’t ever be), there’s not much left that can make the jaw drop or the eyes pop or the Jonathon speechless.

Usually.

The Cat managed it.

So we’re hanging out together last night.   Kane had come over for bad slasher films that we turn into killer comedies by adding live and lewd commentaries.   We’re bloody good at it too.   Plus, these are all the more fun because we should theoretically be studying for some chem test that was today, but Kane couldn’t be fucked learning anything for it and I couldn’t be fucked trying to recollect anything from the last time I took chem. (NB. Kane cheerfully failed the test this morning, and I failed too, to keep him company).

So yeah – bad slasher film.   We’re jeering at this aging peroxide blonde (pretending – badly – that she’s a “teenage camper”) for being too absorbed in getting her tits out to see the lame-ass serial killer behind her, when the Cat comes in.   It’s been sleeping the days under this dresser in the kitchen, I think – well, it gets under there before I leave for school, and it’s still under there when I come home.   Then it perks up in the evening, and stays up with me at nights, or goes out food shopping.   Anyway, last night it comes in with something unidentifiable that was probably once alive, and chews it over under the coffee table.   Kane stretches as the credits roll, observes the Cat’s dinner looks scarier than anything we saw in that last movie, and goes home.

I’m wondering whether I can be bothered getting up off the couch to take a shower, and meanwhile the Cat has finished with its horror show, and is meticulously cleaning blood off its paws and licking its lips.   Dunno why it cares – what with its fucked-over ear and mangy tail and death-eager eyes, it’s always looked like a stunt double from Pet Semetary that’s just been dug up for a couple of takes.   Clean claws are hardly a vast improvement in looks.   But I ain’t going to tell it – we all have our little vanities.

However, the leftovers under the coffee table are equally unpleasant to look at.   I fish whatever it was up with the end of a pencil, and carry it down the hall to the bin outside.

The Cat follows in funeral procession.

So now I’m out the front of the house in the semi-dark, and opening the bin and lobbing the masticated carcass inside, where it makes a wet thud as it hits bottom.   The Cat saunters off.  

And I’m just thinking about whether I need snacks myself tonight, and looking balefully at the full moon that is going to fuck up easy hunting with annoying visibility… when I hear that familiar sound.

 

You know the one.

That white noise of an approaching car out on the road that becomes a screech of brakes, and then that unmistakable dull thump (deja vu) of flesh and bone meeting non-organic material.   Hard.

Oh fuck.

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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