It is eerily quiet in the apartment. Not in a volume sense – we are listening to gangster rap – but it is quiet in the sense that it feels as if something is about to happen. A sense of foreboding permeates the air like the smell of bacon in the morning, sinister yet intoxicating. A quiet, tentative peace holds, but we all know that it could break at any moment. A wrong step here, a misinterpreted cat glare there.
After much sniffing around, rubbing on things and testing various “laying down” spots, the cats have split the apartment into three territories. Irish, tiny and fairy-like but well-endowed with her razor-sharp claws, rules the master bedroom from her sheepskin throne. Feebee has changed her name Zelda the Twilight Princess and has taken control of bedroom number two. The sunlight hurts her eyes so she has made herself a lair beneath the bed. She sneaks out, a twilight vixen vampire-like with her eerie green eyes and luxurious coat, to take advantage of the locals in the night.
The locals feel used in the morning, but they like it.
Floyd has killed his former soul. Now known as Lord Voldemort, he controls of the rest of the house. He has taken inspiration from the dark lords of myth and like Sauron from LOTR, he is always watching.
Always.
Watching.
The food is his. The chair is his. The rug is his. The refrigerator is intriguing. The kitchen most certainly is his. He is pretty sure that whatever is outside is his too.
So far he still allows us to use the bathroom.
The humans believe there is still good in him and have organized a weak resistance. It may be futile.
For now the peace persists. Occasionally one of the lady-cats will venture out, quietly, to test the dark lord’s patience. He is allowing these trespasses while learning his enemies and waiting for his power to grow. Only time will tell how things unfold.
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