Tibbles Consumes the World
Feline fleeces the globe
If Tibbles had her way, the world would end tonight.
It began with the waterslide and a bucket full of toads launched into the air. The flying amphibians became wedged in the jammed croissants. Sticky afterburner-red jam leaked onto the carpet. Toads drunk on sugar followed suit. The crowded tea party of gentlemen dining with rats now fought the Bufo influx. Saucers rattled from the leaping green virus. Milk spilled into a pond consuming the Devonshire scones. The cucumber sandwiches neatly folded to match the Queen’s proclamation, lay scattered on the wasteland of the tablecloth. Each upturned triangle was sodden with toad waste.
Tibbles moved on.
The Persian, lineage unknown, casually strolled to the control booth — a boxed room with no air lined with a panel of buttons. The cat glared at the desk, one foot poised, as she prepared her descent.
Outside, the panicked Gentlemen scrambled to catch the invasive toads. The All-Men’s club clashed and crashed and buffooned into one another like ricocheting pinballs onto bumpers. Lancaster Gilroy the Third insouciantly plucked a toad from his shoulder. He was after the cat and had lost sight of the feline devil. He wasn’t interested in the crash-wallop of mankind fighting amphibians. There would be no winners in…
