The cat, the doo, and the dead neighbor

There was cat shit on the stairs and someone had to pay. Someone little. And quite possibly to boot... a cat. And indeed I did boot him. Right into the fucking professional grade floor fan. I really should have unplugged it first. Because now instead of just cleaning up crap, now I had to deal with cleaning cat organs and cat blood off of the wall. Plus it splattered all over my brand new shirt. I really liked this shirt too. But anyway, I figured bleach would take care of it. Disinfectant, you know. Plus you never truly know what a cat eats. I could get some kind of Mongolian disease by brushing by the spot a kitty organ had been oozing from. But the bleach started taking the paint off of the wall. Go figure, someone replaced the bleach with paint stripper.

So now out of ideas, I decided screw it, I'll make it look like a some kind of suicide. Great idea, right. So I unloaded a shotgun (I keep an unregistered one under the mattress in case any of you want to rob me) into the wall. Unfortunately it also went through it. I heard the neighbor screaming and I didn't know what to do. I mean, I couldn't let him live in agony with a stump for a leg or arm. So I ran downstairs and outside, then kicked down his door and ran back up his stairs. I was tired. And Luckily it was just a flesh wound. Unfortunately though, I came running into his room with a loaded shotgun and a blood soaked shirt. This didn't look good. So I shot him again. Even though the first time wasn't really me shooting him but more like grazing... oh hell, you get the point.

Anyway, I realized with all of this gunfire the cops were sure to be sent here soon. I needed a good story, and I needed one fast. But all I could think of was Murder-Suicide. I'd have to make it good though, so I devised one a little like this:

"The cat was always taking fat stinky shits in the litter box under an opened window, and the smell kept drifting outside where he had to walk by it everyday. Finally the smell of cat doo was too much for him to take anymore and he ended up going crazy and stuff. He started babbling. Screaming of a great doodoo king that lived in the sky and feasted on the colons of small children. Then out of nowhere, he came running into my apartment and shot my fucking cat. Well, the cat I was watching anyway. Then being nuts, like I had said, he turned around and ran back home. But surprise-surprise, he had locked himself out. And oh no, he had no shoes on... so he came back, stole mine while I was so busy grieving, and kicked down his door. He was feeling like an idiot for locking his keys in. I think he might have been an Emo, or whatever they call themselves.. Anyway, he was so down on himself that he ended up shooting himself in the back of the head using a circus trick he had learned in the.. well.. the circus. And now he is dead, and... so is that beloved cat!"

After I had told this story to the female police officer called in to investigate the scene, I realized how stupid it was and how she wouldn't believe me (as you might have guessed). Fortunately though, my neighbor turned out to be from a gang called the Crazy Caucasian Terrorists they had been looking for since late 1995. Happy she had finally found him, even dead, we rejoiced and drank a bitch beer (as that's what any good cop would drink). And we danced the night away. In my bedroom that is. That is to say her foot danced repeatedly on my junk after she realized I had just slipped her a roofie. But oh well, it had to kick in sometime, har har har!