You

     You tug at the pant legs of your expensive jeans so they hang just so over your fashionable boots just so. "Let's get this over with," you say to them with a grimace. Your beau squeezes your shoulder and reaches for your hand. You wince. That hurts, he thinks. He remembers to hide his pain. One older brother checks the car door locks. He doesn't care for the neighborhood. The other-- younger-- stands in the driveway, hands pushed deep into his pockets. "Yeah, get 'er done," he mumbles. He wants to get back to the hotel and the stash in his suitcase. 

     The four of you walk up the driveway and onto the ramp. "New paint job," the concerned brother says. The doper brother is staring about the grounds and the foundation plants. It's a grand house. If he owned all of this, he'd be sure to put in a locked greenhouse way in the back. You know his fantasies well. You glare at him, "Forget it," you say. "You'll never be able to afford this." He flips you the bird when he thinks you aren't looking.

     One of the workers responds to the doorbell and ushers all of you inside. Your overly-applied perfume hangs like sticky fog, not even dissipating in the breeze.  It is good enough. I grab my tools from the back shed and go to work on your shiny automobile. You deserve this. The job is completed in less than a minute. Excellent.

     I crouch behind the bush just under the drawing room window on the far side of the house. I can hear you perfectly. Not so much your words. Those skid around me, vacant and unfeeling. It is your tone of voice that dances around the room clearly and then flings itself with abandon out to my hiding place. A nearby squirrel chatters. He chases another one to a sickly oak. Up and around they go in a crazy zigzag.

     Your beau-- I allow myself a moment to feel sorry for him-- does not realize that he is second fiddle to your swollen false ego. He has often speculated on who his competition for your affection might be. He has hacked into your computer [your first cat's name as a password] and hunted through your addresses. One suspect turned out to be a cousin living in Chicago. Another a much loved gay friend.

     Your grandfather, usually lost to his dementia, is having a clear day. Your beau goes off to find the men's room. "He's not marriage material," he tells you plainly. "Oh grandpa, what do you know?" 

     "Where's your respect?" your younger brother whispers to you. You kick him in the shin. He winces but says nothing further. Grandpa is dying and he doesn't want to upset him. "A gambler," your older brother nods knowingly for Grandpa's benefit but not yours. You glare at him. Screw this, you tell yourself. Your beau returns. "Gotta go Gramps," you say as you bend down to kiss his papery skin. You drag your bodyguards away.

     Your older brother starts the car.  

The Revenge

   The Cold Slut, formerly of Philadelphia, was dead. She left her sister-- The Warmed Over Slut, a.k.a. Berta Knumknutz Malifer-- one cat. Berta was not crazy about cats, particularly this cat. She had gone to the house to retrieve the monster. The thing spat at her and pissed on her fine hosiery as she struggled to stuff it into the cat carry box.

The thing's name was Puffkin. Why on earth would my sister name it 'Puffkin,' Berta thought. Puffkin let out a huge yowl and farted. He [for it was definitely a male; his huge testicles were evidence] braced four massive paws against the sides of the box. He hissed mightily. Just goes to show that Men Are Pigs, Berta groaned inwardly. All Men Are Pigs. And this is the Pig Planet.

When the brackish fumes parted, Berta saw that Puffkin was now inside the box and purring. Damn personality-disordered cat. Just like my dead sister.

Berta slid the door closed. She lifted the carry box-- shit, Puffkin was heavy-- and hauled it out to her waiting car. She slid the box into the front passenger seat and lamely fastened the seat belt around her uh, prize. She had to hurry. She was expected the next day at her job. She was the C.E.O. of Needy People Day Care.

It was a job that she hated. All day and every day, needy people crowded her and shouted their horrid histories at her. Even the presence of a shrimpy assistant did not help. She lived, breathed, and ate needy people. Yet, Berta's holy and pure soul was full of goodness. She was zealous about her charges on the outside. She hated them with a passion inside her head but she kept those thoughts to herself.

Berta swerved into the cruising lane of the Penna Pike. She hated this road. She hated the cat. She hated her job and her life. She also hated her dentist. He was a man. And All Men Are Pigs. There were no women dentists within an hour of her crappy little town. With the price of gas these days, she had to make do with his alien sausage fingers rooting around in her mouth. She wanted to bash him. Mustn't think about that now.

Berta turned on the radio. I don't like you. Berta turned to stare at the cat in the box. She wasn't used to hearing voices since the crazy hippy acid days when she was young and pretending to be cool. A fifty-three footer rumbled by, nearly cutting her off. Berta jerked her eyes back onto the road and away from her dastardly passenger. I hate you. There it was again.

Berta raised the radio volume and started singing with the pop tune.  "I don't love you since you ate my pet frog's legs," she sang. She pretended that she was in Nashville getting discovered. Her hooters were the equals of Dolly's after all. Why shouldn't she have been carried away into the fame that she was supposed to have? Die! This last was screamed, causing a man in a small boxy car next to her to turn around and flip her the finger. 

"Will you just shut up?" Berta yelled. Make me, came the sinister reply. Berta punched at the radio. Two men were talking about the Illuminati coming to take over the earth. She didn't much care for conspiracy theories-- she was an oh so sensible give away the barn democrat-- but she left it on. Puffkin had settled down into the back of the box for a nap. Anything was better than listening to his snarky monologue while driving. Psychotic feline.

Finally, Berta saw her exit. She flew off the Pike and hurled her stupid car into the parking lot of her fancy smancy apartment building. She told her family back home that she lived in a condo but no one was fooled. Feed me. Berta struggled to extract the box from the car and carried it into the apartment building. A rumble and another fart.

Once inside the apartment, Berta let the cat out of the box. Puffkin explored the edges, left a calling card into the litter box she had set up for him, and then sashayed into the kitchen. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.

"Oh alright," Berta said. "Here." She dumped some wet food into one saucer and dry into another. She set both down next to a fresh bowl of water. "I hope you're satisfied." Whatever. Warmed Over Slut. He grinned and laughed heartily.

Berta walked into the living room. She flopped onto her favorite and only easy chair. The remote was on the tasteful little table next to her. She clicked on the teevee. The Men Are Pigs channel had another all day marathon movie session. The movies were always about how women were abused by men. She settled down into a story about how a man had horribly murdered a woman. It was satisfying. She forgot about the menace in her kitchen.

Suddenly, a crash. Berta shook her glazed over eyes back into focus. That stupid smelly thing was sitting on her chest. Human. You are a piece of work. Berta was afraid. Why oh why didn't she just take Puffkin to the no-kill shelter? Or refused her dead sister's gift? The cat kneaded her stomach with sharpened claws. He turned around, shoving his butt up to her mouth. Instantly, she understood. His fangs popped out and he began to feed.

                          ~ sapphoq n "friends" yeah right ~

Please credit story to sapphoq if you reproduce this in any media, although I don't know why you would want to reproduce this anywhere.

Dree Raincave Did Not Die

That last "story" was a tidbit.  A smokescreen.  Dree Raincave didn't land in a tropical paradise.  He is safe.  He is somewhere.  Even his girlfriend Honey doesn't know where.  Wait.  Do you hear that?  The sound of drums off in a distance.  Let's listen.

Narrator:  Dree RainCave is back in the news today after evading U.S. undercover agents in Hong Kong and a foiled drone strike at the Russian airport in Moscow.  Late last night, Dree was spirited out from the window of a secret lounge and taken by flying reindeer to his new home.  We cannot tell you where it is-- only that the natives are all short and slender.  Their leader is a large woman who keeps beating her husband over his bald head with a rolling pin.  It seems they are Arcadian transplants as she has referred to him as "Mister Klaus" several times and threatened his anatomy while doing so.
               The natives have gathered around Dree RainCave [One short person gave me a cup of what seems to be hot chocolate, whispered to me that the proper spelling of his last name is capital R-a-i-n-no space capital-C-a-v-e before dashing off into the writhing bodies dancing madly around a bonfire.  In the distance, reindeer could be heard jousting for the opportunity to be front-runners of an ancient rickety sleigh.
               This is Flop News reporting to you from the Frozen Nort-- Hey give me back my microphone you midget!  We don't have any money in the budget for a repl--

Elven Aggressor:  That's "elf" to you, media whore.  Dree RainCave has been officially welcomed into our community.  He will be given a private igloo on our property and a job inventing robotic toys at our factory.  Now shove off before I throw the lot of you into the ocean.

Narrator:  Hey!  Give me tha--

          ~plunk~      ~plunk plunk~                     ~plunk

Transmission fades out.  

The Death of Dree RainCave

It was another average day of an average life.  Dree woke up still sleepy.  A large bird of some sort-- he thought perhaps it was a macaw-- circled his hammock and settled on a nearby branch.  Something glittered on the bird's leg.

Dree tumbled out of the hammock and carefully picked his way down the hill to the lagoon.  He stepped out of his gauzy shift and tossed it on a nearby boulder.  "Morning love," his sexy girlfriend Honey said.  She motioned to his waiting coffee.  Dree leaned back again the boulder with his brew, enjoying the sight of her supple nakedness as she washed her long hair in the outdoor shower.  

"Join me Dree," Honey intoned, "there's plenty of water."  Dree set his cup down on the boulder.  He bolted for the shower spray.  "Got you!" he yelled.  He embraced her, breathing deeply of the hibiscus soap she used.  She flipped him over suddenly.  He landed on his back, feeling the wetness of the planks underneath him.

A red feather drifted downward and suddenly everything went dark.  The spray of bullets washed over the lovers.  Up and away the macabre macaw flew, mission accomplished.