The Devil and Evy the Cat

I took a mortgage out on my soul a while back and the interest is killing me. His eyes were two different colors, like Bowie's, and if not for the loathsome reputation, which had me on edge, I could have really liked him. As it was, the negotiations went smoothly and for awhile things were great. Time passed and for one reason or another I missed a payment or two. I was frying up some bacon after a night out when an apparition appeared to me and invited me to a little gathering in the bowels of hell. I was a little nervous but once the dust settled we came to an agreement I could live with, for a while.

It was apparent to the Father of Lies that he couldn't trust me. It's an element of human nature that causes us to be so dishonest with those we know are dishonest themselves. You don't see drug dealers and murderers getting their feelings hurt when someone lies to them. They don't lie awake all night wondering why somebody done them wrong, they just hire a thug or two to come by and pull your toenails out and crack your head once or twice. The Soul Reaver doesn't use such mundane tactics, however, and his reign is such that he can afford a certain sense of humor when it comes to punishing the wicked. He sent me a cat.

I was lulled into a false sense of security when, for the first couple of weeks, the cat seemed to be fairly normal and maybe even a little dumb. Small and wiry, his coat is black, of course, and his eyes weep a little, lending him an air of helplessness. I suppose its not fair to assume he even knows what he is. It may be that he thinks he's just a cat but it has become clear to me that he was spawned, not birthed. That he sometimes becomes a tool with which the Destroyer watches my every move, I don't doubt anymore. You'd know what I am trying express if you were to wake up in the middle of the night with this thing sitting on your chest staring at you; a portal through which the pure and deliciously malignant nature of the Waster of the Underworld can peek at you while you are completely defenseless and a little groggy.

"It's a kitten!" you cry, as he purrs into your psyche, lulling you into a submissive and relaxed state. When he stretches out you smile at how cute he looks, and when he misses the jump from the couch to the coffee table and tumbles to the floor with a self conscious squeak you say 'awww' and scoop him up to pat his battered head and smooth out the ruffled coat he spends hours grooming. It wasn't your toothbrush I caught him using the other morning. Who else could be re-programming the remote? We'll see how you feel when, with his prescience and devil-inspired foreknowledge he heads to the litter box seconds before the doorbell rings.

Having related all this, with the cat perched on my shoulder, I feel it necessary (and a little prudent) to tell you that when I received the Master of Dread, fed him some coffee and cake, the night before last, he denied ever having sent an agent into my life. "Do you really think I need a cat to keep a eye on you, Mike?" He laughed at my descriptions of the feline's destructive abilities and said, "He does sound fun." but denied any involvement in the matter.

Things are square, now, between me and the Blackest of Hearts and the cat remains. But you tell me. When the Great Deceiver tells you that cats are just cats, and that maybe I'm just a little bit paranoid, which he claims no responsibility for, who would you believe?