The apocalypse is now a calico cat. It’s huge. And fat. And vicious. Its jaw foams and bubbles with angry saliva. It spits. It spits at me and anyone who goes near it. It has a ferocious roar and it snaps and bites the air like a rabid tiger. It’s eyes are narrow and black and bloodshot with delirium. The hair on it’s back stands straight up, in a constant state of bristling edginess. Its claws are razor sharp and lethal. The wounds they inflict throb and sting my arms, my legs, my face. I’ve been battling this cat for days, for weeks. I have bite marks around both of my wrists, and at the side of my neck. It wants my jugular. It leaps at my veins whenever I try to calm it into submission – turning my sweet, cajoling words into choking coughs of pain. Soon I can’t battle anymore; I’ve only got scraps of flesh left. I have to live in constant fear, tip-toeing around this stupid calico cat, at the mercy of it’s egomaniacal temper. But I can’t stop plotting…I can’t stop thinking there must be a way to kill this fucking cat.