Black Magic: Meow Meow Meow

A vase shattered in the darkness, and it’s crash resonated in the dark. In fact, it was so dark, that even the souls of the damned couldn't find their way to the fires of hell. It was so dark that the vast emptiness of the universe would form a fit of jealousy if it were alive. The vase had shattered, so it was broken. Broken like the many paths humans take. Maybe that was the statement he wanted to make, that humanity destroys the very echo--

"What the fuck?" Charles mumbled as he flicked on the light. He had heard a loud noise and awoke from his mortal slumber. "What the fuck!" He said again, this time louder, as he now saw the broken vase. Rubbing his forehead again, he said calmly "What the fuck."

Then out of the stinking, putrid, brightness of the lamp known as, 'POS from Walmart I got for $5, but the dickholes didn't tell me it came without a warranty', a demonic sound came from behind it. It was the sound of pure evil, and hatred -- at least that’s what Charles would describe it as.

"Meow."

Charles looked over to his left, and he saw a black tail swaying from side to side from behind his 'POS lamp.' He knew whose furry tendril that belonged to, and it was a vile creature indeed. It was the fucking cat, he thought. Furrowing his brows, he briskly walked over to the seemingly mundane feline (and probably was).

"Why the fuck did you break grandma's vase, Mittens?!" Charles shouted, bellowing halfway through his question.

Lucifurr did not answer. He answered to no one, for he was a god and Charles was just an ugly bag of mostly water. He did not have to answer his questions. It was beneath him. But the main reason why he did not answer, was because he was simply a cat.

"Do you just like giving me a panic attack? Do I look like I'm made of money?!" The human ranted, as he started picking up the pieces. Charles couldn't believe that his grandma's vase was shattered; like his life.

"Meow," Lucifurr stated. His glassy, soulless eyes blinked superficially with malice. Hoping that his statement would finally correct this human's behavior. For he was the ‘Duke of Debauchery,' the ‘Herald of Heinous Torture,' and/or the ‘King of Mischief.' He was not required to answer, but he chose to. He chose to because he felt bad for the babbling meat bag.

"That's all you have to say? Just "Meow"? I knew I should've got a fucking dog." Charles grumbled and left the room to find the vacuum.

Once the human exited the room, Lucifurr jumped on the coffee table. Planning his next assault on the domain of his oppressor. He saw the couch -- too comfy. He saw the portraits -- too ugly. Lucifurr also saw The Other One, the disgusting excuse he shared air with. The sorry-excuse-for-a-caretaker called him, Oscar. Oscar, the parrot.

"I should've got a fucking dog." Screeched Oscar.

If anyone were to decipher Oscar, one would think he was mocking the cat. The cat loathed his existence almost as much as humans touching his soft, fluffy belly. One of Lucifur’s unspoken dreams often visioned Oscar letting his guard down, and he would take the opportunity to eat him (or offer as a present to Charles). Somehow, Oscar always eluded his attacks in the end; almost as if he knew. That, and he was also protected by a cage, which had only cost $19.99. But eventually, there would be a day -- not today of course, where the bird would meet his end.

Lucifur merely hissed when Oscar screeched again, "I should've got a fucking dog."

"Leave the goddamn bird alone you creepy fuck," Charles said as he carried the vacuum into the room. He unwrapped the cord and plugged it into the wall. As he was about to turn it on, Lucifurr jumped on top of the vacuum. In the past, Charles thought that this was something hilarious his cat did -- but now it was an utter annoyance. It was almost as if every time the cat broke something, he’d take extreme measure to prevent his masterpiece from being cleaned up.

"Get off the vacuum you asshole," Charles replied as if the cat had read his mind.

"Meow." Lucifur would not let him destroy his one true happiness, destruction. It was his Satan-given right to decline this humans request for "clean."

"I'm warning you," Charles said in a low voice, as his thumb slowly hovered over the on the button. He seemed tense and recalled the last time they had this stand-off.

It was the summer of 96’, and Charles had just gotten home from work. At this point in his life, Charles was not purposely trying to relive the 80’s -- by purchasing some “nose candy.” “Don’t be a fuddy-duddy Charles, just buy some already!” his ex-girlfriend used to say. She had never truly stopped, and this had caused him actually to take it back up just this once. So here he was, a man of 32, attempting to relive the glory days. Actually using it that evening is not what triggered the “standoff of 96’”, it was actually the next morning.

After a long night of Pabst and Studio Fuel, Charles almost didn’t make it work on time. His ex-had already left that night, and so there was no one to clean up. He was gone for about six hours, but upon his return, his apartment was ‘’repainted white’’. It was probably the most expensive destruction the cat had ever done. The counter was scratched, scattered with white powder, and obviously had gnawing marks. The carpet was stained with leftover beer and cigarettes, and more coke. As for the walls, it was as if the cat had learned to walk on them without the effects of gravity. If cat scratches had a language, the wall would say, “Welcome home, asshole.”

“What in the--,” before he even finished his remark, he heard a low groan coming from the corner. It sounded so sick and terrifying, but he quickly made the connection that the cat had also tried to experience the 80’s. If Charles had not also seen that his grandmother’s lamp was also broken, he would’ve felt sorry for the cat.

Unlike the current situation, two things had been different: The first, when Charles grabbed the vacuum to clean up his fun dust, Lucifur jumped on his back. He had only suffered a few scratches, but Lucifur landed on the vacuum -- preventing him from moving it like he was doing in the present. The yowls of a coke-fueled black cat were something Charles never wanted to hear again. The second, Lucifur had only been a kitten, but it was truly amazing how much damage he actually did back then. Charles, since then, wondered if the breeder had summoned this cat from the ninth circle of hell.

Charles shook his head and tried to forget the countless hours he fought with his cat to even plug in the vacuum. He once again tried to reason with Lucifur, “Get off the damn vacuum you spawn of Satan.”

Lucifur decided to push the meat bag further and outstretched his limbs across the cloth bag of the vacuum. It was very clear what his thoughts were about a clean home. And so he had his front paws on the bag of the vacuum and protruded his claws.

"Don't you fucking dare." Charles now began to shake the vacuum, to ward off evil. Maybe if he wished hard enough, the claws wouldn’t puncture the bag. Then Charles wouldn’t have to replace the vacuum yet again. Yet it was for naught, for Lucifur dug his claws into the bag; he was now one with the vacuum.

Oscar screeched, "I should've got a fucking dog."

"Yes Oscar I know!" yelled Charles, as he dropped the vacuum out of reflex. He then reached for the cat. If Lucifur hadn't been feeling merciful, Charles would surely be dead; for Lucifur yowled and hissed at him, and scratched his arm.

"Goddamnit!" cried the frustrated man, and he let go of Lucifurr. In kind, Lucifurr hissed again and ran into the kitchen. He melded into the shadows of the counters. It was almost as if he had planned this whole charade, even if he was a cat.

"You know what? I'm going back to bed. I’m done!" fumed Charles, as he briskly walked back to his bedroom. On his way, he turned off the light and slammed his bedroom door.

Lucifur hopped on the kitchen counter as if he had won. Some would say, “Of course he had won, this cat is pure evil.” Evil, in this case, seemed to triumph over human intellect. But Lucifur circled the counter several times, and Oscar squawked three times. It was as if he was chastising the Master of Menace. The hiss in return was most likely a reply.

With one last circle around the counter, Lucifur retreated to his domain; the bathtub. He curled up into a ball and began to slumber. It should be assumed that he started dreaming about eating (or maiming) Oscar. If he did ever catch that bird, he dreamed of two scenarios: one where Charles praised him with catnip, and one where he chased him with the vacuum.