The First and Last Chapter
My cats are evil. I don't care what my mum says, they are.
I have proof, too. Like when Monty brings me something he killed in the garden. Mum says it's a gift. As if! Who would give a dead animal as a gift? It's obviously a warning.
I'm getting a bit worried now, though, because the warnings have stopped.
It was just this morning I had been sorting through my clothes and Smokey had padded up to me, looking all innocent.
I had stared into her pitiless black eyes. It was like staring into a dark abyss, like staring into the depths of hell. And mum thought they were cute.
I wanted to look away, but I had learnt looking away makes them think you're weak. They almost always attack after. She cocked her head slightly. And gave me the stink eye. The big, rotten, hairy eyeball. I shivered.
They're planning something.
Then her ears started twitching. I knew what this meant. I should, after so living so long with evil kittens. This was their way of communicating with other cats.
I was sure she was reporting me to the council of cats.
Smokey sits at my foot, purring evilly. She knows what I'm doing. "Go away!" I hiss. I try to kick her, and she growls at me before plodding away, ears twitching furiously. Probably warning Monty.
I stand back and look proudly at my work. Perfect. It sure looks a lot like cat poop. I go into my room to get my iPod, to take a picture of my magnificent masterpiece.
But what I find shocks me. My iPod is smashed on the ground. But not only that. My clothes are strewn all over the floor. My new phone and headphones are in pieces on the ground.
And there is Monty, next to my laptop. On the screen is a picture of me in bed, sucking my thumb and cuddling Mr. Tickles. Monty's tiny paw hovers, threatening, over the 'enter' button. One tap and the photo is sent to all my teachers, friends, friends parents, friends parents dogs, friends parents dogs neighbours, friends dads parents dogs friends dogs mum, and so on.
Beside him is Smokey, casually sharpening her claws. When she sees me she rests one paw on Mr. Tickles threateningly.
Her meaning is clear. If I go ahead with my plan to kick them out, say bye-bye to Mr. Tickles. And all my friends. And all my friends parents dogs. And all my friends parents dogs neighbours. I clench my fists and slowly back out of the room. I turn to the fake cat poop.
Casually, I empty it out into the bin.
Then I turn back. I know what I have to do. I look to the phone.
"I am a very important official. Is this some kind of prank call?" "No! Sir, it's true, cats are planning to take over the world. I've seen them! Hide yourselves! Form an army!"
The call hangs up. I slowly plod back to my room. They will feel guilty when cats really do take over the world.
I enter my room. And my stomach tightens. The 'send' button has been pressed on my laptop. The picture has been seen by everyone in the neighbourhood. The cats are nowhere to be seen. My room is still a sty.
And, worst of all, with stuffing spurting out, Mr. Tickles lies still on my desk, his head severed. Lifeless. I growl. This means war.
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