Robert was convinced that his cat was trying to kill him. After using the litter box, Mr. Cuddles kicks the litter around, leaving a big gaping hole in the middle of the box. Robert was positive that Mr. Cuddles was practicing body burial.
Robert also occasionally woke up on the sofa after his afternoon nap to find Mr. Cuddles kneading about on his body. Robert was certain that this was not a display of affection, but a clever technique in which Mr. Cuddles very subtlety checked his internal organs for weaknesses. Cuddles seemed to have settled on the pancreas. Robert stopped having afternoon naps.
And so, Robert went through every day and every night in fear that his cat would come out of the darkness and suddenly disembowel him, for some of the cat medicine men had mysterious powers, and could shapeshift into anything. Robert was also sure that there existed a secret ring of cat terrorists bent on overthrowing humankind via faked cuteness and disarming meows. He dubbed these vile scum as caterrorists. Robert was not good at names.
Robert would have killed Mr. Cuddles himself, if not in fear of the retribution that he would bring unto himself from the crazed cult of caterrorists, who would undoubtedly claw themselves into his house and lay giant rat traps everywhere, which, Robert speculated, they would use out of a love for cruel irony.
He tried to intimidate Mr. Cuddles by goading him into a staring competition, but he always lost. Mr. Cuddles never blinked. Those damned cat eyes, staring straight at him, straight down into his soul! They seemed to know everything about him. They seemed to be taunting him!
Robert took a lot of amphetamines. They not only allowed him to stay awake against the hallowed forces of evil, they also gave unto him knowledge about the cats and their plans. It was as if some higher being was giving him help. He was very, very grateful towards this higher being. He often asked how he could ever repay him. The conversation usually went something like this:
Robert: Oh great, magnificent God of all, however can I repay you?
Higher being: Mo' pills.
Robert: If you do insist, oh divine master.
And so Robert took quite a few pills, secure in the knowledge that if the cat ever encroached upon his personal safety, the higher being would smack it to death, probably with a large baseball bat.
However, one day, the Higher Being disappeared. Dissipated. Gone! Robert was extremely uneasy. He assumed that the cats had kidnapped the Higher Being using some sort of advanced technology. Coincidentally, slightly before this, he also ran out of pills.
It was no good. Robert was addicted to the amphetamines. He went to his usual dealer, Jacob, down the street, below the great oak tree. Jacob, whilst handing over a bag, asked him what the problem was. "No problem," said Robert. "Well," Jacob said, "your eyes almost look like that of a cat's. And your moustache looks strange, almost as if it's turning into cat whiskers." Robert ran all the way back home.
Robert couldn't find a mirror. The only mirror he had was smashed by Mr. Cuddles a week ago. And even as Robert ran around the house, looking for a mirror, Mr. Cuddles followed him with what appeared to be a ghost of a smirk on his face.
Robert finally found a piece of jagged glass which had fallen off from the smashed mirror. "Yes," he thought as he stared hard at the glass, "those do look like cat eyes. And it looks as if I'm growing whiskers! I'm growing into a cat!"
Suddenly, in the glass flashed the image of Mr. Cuddles. Robert looked behind him and screamed. Mr. Cuddles was right behind him, staring at him, as if saying, "Hahah, you're one of us, you're one of us!"
Robert took the piece of jagged glass and slashed open his own throat.
Mr. Cuddles walked along the street, and went underneath the great oak tree, where he waited for a bit, until a black cat came along.
They both nodded and meowed to each other, conversing for a while, until, seemingly agreeing on something, they parted ways.
Mr. Cuddles went down the street to find a new owner, while the black cat looked around for a while, then, having made sure the street was empty, he closed his eyes and concentrated, causing his features to start morphing.
His posture grew more upright, his fur disappeared, his eyes grew more angular, his nose became more defined, his whiskers shrank inwards. And slowly, his features began to resemble that of a particular drug dealer whose body was found in the gutter a week ago, a man named Jacob. He took a packet of amphetamines out of his pocket and grinned.
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(This story is credited to a person called Necronophore.)