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June 10 - September 11, 2025
I never considered myself a big fan of cats. But, if we’re being truthful here, I liked Donut. That cat did not give two shits about anybody or anything, and I could respect that.
“You humans are all the same. This is the seventh or eighth human-seeded world, and it’s always the same. You always want to know why. Why can’t you just accept your circumstances and move on? My people, the skyfowls, we generally last much longer than you humans. You know why? Because we roll with it.”
“Nor am I wearing a cloak that makes me look like I won a participation trophy at the special needs comic con, Carl. I’m a cat. Cats don’t wear pants. Don’t be so droll.”
But it seemed the AI—or whatever it was that controlled the game messages—really did have some sort of foot fetish. It was fucking weird.
Donut yawned deeply and rolled onto her side as I sat up. “Go back to bed,” she said sleepily. “I need several more hours. That is an order from your princess.” “Get up,” I said. “Tally is making you food, remember?” That perked her up.
“Did we really just start a meth war between the goblins and the llamas?”
Was there a giant goblin in there?” I asked. Donut heaved for breath. “Yes. A huge. Ugly. Goblin. My word. I do not like running. He was sitting down, reading a book. Blow it, blow it good.” I jammed the button. “There sure were a lot of babies in there, too,” Donut said in that last moment before the blast.
New achievement! War Criminal. You have killed more than 20 non-combatants in a single attack! Question: What’s the only thing standing between an innocent child and a happy, fulfilling life? Answer: You. The answer is you. Reward: You’ve received a Gold Asshole’s Box!
Brandon went to a knee and patted Donut on the head. She looked simultaneously outraged and thrilled that he had touched her. “Well it’s nice to meet you, Princess Donut. I’m sorry if I offended you, pretty girl. I’ve never met a talking cat before.” “It’s quite all right,” Donut said, mollified. “Apology accepted.”
“I think I’ve had too much to drink,” she said. “Or I’m having another one of those acid flashbacks. This cat keeps talking to me.”
“I don’t like puking. I don’t want to puke!” I laughed. “Really? I seem to recall you had a thing for vomiting on my pillow.” “That was different. I did that on purpose.” “I knew it! I fucking knew it.”
I couldn’t tell for certain, but I had the distinct impression he was only in his early twenties. I hated him instantly.
I recognized that look on his face, of fulminating, under-the-surface rage. I felt a deep satisfaction at that.
I looked up at the Maestro, a huge smile on my face. “Glurp on that, motherfucker,” I said.
Maggie growled. “I am going to find you, and I am going to watch you die. You and the fucking cat.” “Oooooh,” the crowd said, like we were on an episode of the goddamned Jerry Springer Show.
Anyone who mistook fear for respect was a fool.
“Wait, it’s a sex tape? With Carl and the Maestro?” Donut said. She practically fell off her chair, laughing. “And I thought it was going to be a bog witch that finally stole his heart.”