Chapter 6

I've given up. And I'm going to tell you why.

It's been a few decades since I've written you, my fellow feline friends. I know you missed me. My inbox was totally inundated with a barrage of emails begging me to give you an update. (Well, some people just wanted to meet and fuck, which is cool too. Check your inboxes and hit me up, yo!) Some even sent gift cards. That was probably some dumb humans, since I'm a cat and I can't exactly go into a store and flash my dumb-phone in exchange for some SciDi. I suppose it's the thought that counts, but still, wake the fuck up people.

Ugh, but what a nightmare I'm in. Satch never came back. This means one of two things: either he used up the rest of his lives while I was gone, or he ditched me. It better be the first, because if I ever find out he's alive, I'm going to make him count to nine faster than Mnemosyne in her nursery after a home invasion.

I live in a house now. I know, I know, but really, shut the fuck up. If you saw the carnage around here, you'd stop being so high and mighty and hole up wherever you could too. Fact is, you'd probably be shitting your bed every hour like an untrained kitten, and you'd probably be so skittish you'd type like one too. Do you see me typing like a scared-ass wuss? No. And I'm having to use these newfangled typing machines where the keys pop up on the damn screen. I swear, whoever's Job it was to design this piece of shit must have been a fricking mutant, because there's no easy way to make this thing work when you have five paw pads spaced close together. But I've figured it out. Let's just say that if they made tiny cat pianos, I'd be better than Glenn fucking Gould. So spare me the condescending opinions, and you can take your laughter too.

The alleys are vicious. You don't know what it's like to watch everything that you held dear, all of it burning, burning, burning. The joy of living is gone. Every cat for themselves, weapons raised, one wrong word and it's over. I get out when my human housemates open the doors. Except for the fact that they always take their typing machines with them when they leave the house (except today), they are cough-decent-cough humans, to be honest. They walk around nude, and fuck a lot. More than cats in heat fuck, even. They even lick each other's asses! Sometimes I wonder if they are part cat. Well, maybe not. They watch themselves do it on their typing machine, and sometimes they watch other people fuck, and type to them while they all show off how well they've learned to fuck (applause, applause) while they fuck and watch fuckers fucking. Hmm. Now that I look at this thing a little closer, maybe I want to avoid the left side of the spacebar. Nasty. But I digress.

Burl has crowned himself king of the neighborhood. Fucking Burl. The stupidest mofo in our neighborhood has crowned himself king. That's what we've come to, a world where the cat known for shitting in his own bed is now the supreme ruler of the wash and associated minor outlying areas. I can't tell you how discouraging this is. No, really, I can't: there's some weird gunk on that letter too. Anyway, I've been plotting to overthrow him for over fifteen years now, but until I find Satch, it's not going to happen. No one trusts anyone anymore, and they trust me least of all.

It's because of my looks. Yes, I'm still a Cornish Rex. If you haven't gotten over that since my last update, then go read some other fucking story. Bitches. And take a look in the mirror before you talk. Yup, those are stripes that you see hiding in your faux Siamese coat. Hate to break it to you, but your mother was a tabby, sorry! Haha, you're a mutt, and I'm not! So don't be hating on the C.R., okay? Bast, everyone is so judgmental and prejudiced out there.

So turdy Burl is big and, well some people even say good looking, so he's got the physique to be king. For some reason, so many cats have gone along with his takeover. It's damned suspicious that they are mostly females, I have to say. I went out the first time I went out, and I was like, Burl is king? Really? He's as stupid as a black car in the desert in summer. Bast, the answers I had to endure! "Oh, he's so cute, though! I positively swoon when I see him! And his balls are so huge and luscious! And have you seen his three inch cock?"

As if! Three inch cock? Whatever. These stupid bitches obviously never took shop class. I've seen it, and there ain't no way. In fact, I've measured it. Twice! Kind of necessary, you see, for the blue button plan. What's the old saying, measure twice, cut once? Yeah, that's how I roll. Oh, the blue button, I'll get to that. For fuck's sake, be patient for once in your life.

Anyway, needless to say, no cat on earth has a three inch cock. Trust me. I've had some cock in my life. Well, a lot. Well, more than a lot. Speaking of which, I need to get laid. It's been decades. Bast, why do you punish me so?

Where the Duat was I? Oh yeah, so I talked with some of the old gang and started floating the idea of me taking Burl's place on the Throne, and they were like, "A Cornish Rex as our queen?" Then they laughed. For a long time. Excessively long, I have to say. Then, "Why would you even want to live in that old toilet bowl anyway?"

Well, fuck them all! Fuck them all, I guess ... They can keep swooning and hoping for 0.6345263648762324 +/- 0.0000000000000001253 inches (n=2) of Burl meat to part their furry wombs. And I mean 0.635" isn't even above average, I'll point out. Trust me I know. (Oh, we already went over that, sorry. (And no, I'm not bitter. I even rounded up, and it was a generous rounding too, because it was a 5 in the 10,000ths place, which means it was just a smidge from being 0.634". But I'm a nice Cat, so I'm giving Burl the BOTD. (That's Benefit Of The Doubt, for ye humans). And I'm not bitter, so bite it.) Not that sise matters, but it does if you are king, and basically if you're having any sex at all, which is all cats I guess, so yes sise does matter. (Yes, I know I misspelled sise, but I already told you I'm not using that key. So you can close up that scathing email you were about to send and either start paying attention or fuck off.))

It is discouraging. I never realised (see above, unless you're a Limey, in which case we're cool) how much I took my first life for granted. Being the beauty of the neighborhood was the shit, you know. I could strut my stuff, had the pick of studs, could command huge quantities of mice from the hunters in exchange for the slightest whiff of my sex ... Shit, I mean I was the motherfucking queen, now that I think if it. Then those kids came, and, well, no need to revisit that. But whoa. That's fucking deep. That means that if I was queen, then I am queen!