Pillowman

“Foolish human! After besting your father, I won your servitude!” 

• My cat, probably.

Technically speaking, he wasn’t mine. He belonged to my dad, aka the one who fed/pet/named him. The little guy with a big ego (or so I imagine) was a British Shorthair named Fuzz Aldrin. If it were up to me, his name would be Epeius, the mastermind of the Trojan Horse. I could probably be called speciesist, but that was a perspective I couldn’t shake. He was a self-serving beast, and my dad was the only one between us that cared enough about him enough to meet his needs. Sadly, he was out for the day, so I was the only one who could feed this little menace.

“You may have bested my father, but I won't let myself be bested by your kind!” I sarcastically returned. I admittedly wasn’t even sure how he even got up on the bed in the first place. He was what the kids nowadays called a ‘chonker.’ His legs were a formality at best, commodity at best. His legs were basically invisible under all his fat. If anything, he’d be more likely to rumble down the steps like someone kicked a loaf of bread. Describing it makes it sound like he couldn’t harm a fly, that he’s not able to do anything but loaf around all day, but that’s how they get ya. 

Alas, no matter what I thought about the little beast, taking care of him (the cat) so I didn’t get yelled at was my daily dirt. If anyone thinks that’s going to stop me from muttering to myself about tactical espionage, though, then they probably haven’t known me for very long. The first defining fight in Operation Man Vs. Wild was cutting off their food supply. 

“Cut off their supply of rations! Starve them out!” I said, all the while fixing myself breakfast. Meanwhile, Fuzz Aldrin looked at me like I had just murdered his entire litter. His eyes went wide with betrayal, meowing with a deceptive innocence. Apparently, cat meows are designed to trigger feelings of sympathy, but it wasn’t going to work on me. Him purring was kinda dependent on me actually being emotionally attached to him. 

I made a big mistake, though: I underestimated him. I put my milk and cereal where I thought he couldn’t reach: on top of the table. I don’t know if he jumped up or used the chair as a prop stool, but either way, when I got back from the pantry, there was Coco Puffs all over the floor! Good thing I didn’t pour the milk yet, or I would have considered it an act of domestic terrorism. Instead, it was mostly just an annoying protester running on the court during an NBA game. Still… this unprovoked attack couldn’t go unavenged.

“Negotiations have failed, the only option left is sabotage.” Fuzz (probably) thought. He ruined both my breakfast and my floor, but I knew where to find him at all times. Unfortunately for him, I’d been playing Dead Rising lately, so I knew exactly how to deal with him.

“Alright, fuzzball. One thing you’re going to learn today is to not come between a man and his food.”

Duct tape in hand and pillows laying in wait, I marched up to my room (past the cat, mind you, who must have thought I was coming to cut off one of his paws with the way he looked at me). Once he saw I was walking past him, though, he stretched his body out in the midsummer sun. For a brief second, he probably ran through all the different laws of the Geneva Convention in his head (surprisingly smart, that cat). 

No matter what smarts he could lay claim to, however, I doubt even he could use adhesives to make a giant juggernaut suit out of pillows.

Phineas DuBois built this in a cave! With a bunch of scraps! I joked to myself while putting the whole thing together. By the way, did I say Dead Rising, earlier? Yeah, this was more akin to Pillowman in Community: part man, part pillow. all carnage!

I half expected Fuzz to be clawing on the door to my workshop. It wouldn’t be the first time today he’d have attempted to rob me of something I found important.

Like a protagonist that was beaten badly at the beginning of a videogame, I was back to exact my revenge on the beast that sent me into flight. Heavy footsteps echoed throughout the house, serving as a warning. I didn’t know ‘loud’ was ever a sentence I’d use to describe pillows. Some spies in movies even use them as silencers, but not quiet were my footsteps. Perhaps I’d add muffled feet for the Mk. 2, but for now, this was the best I had time for.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. My feet gave off warning shots through the halls, to the point that when I got to the bottom of the stairs and reentered the kitchen, Buzz had his body sideways to me, nervously observing me. His delicate little meows echoed through the halls of our house, no doubt nostalgic for the duct tape.

“Don’t you know who I am? I’m the Juggernaut, bitch!” 

Fuzz Aldrin took a defensive stance, plopping down on his side so he only had to attack if he needed. The only problem was he was the one who started this war, attacking our ration depot unprovoked. For all the good Cocoa Puffs we lost that day, I wasn’t planning on taking any prisoners. 

Keyword, planning. The initial counterattack was a resounding success. As it turns out, there’s not really a counter for someone going Tony Stark raving mad while dressed up like Stay Puft. No counter, that is, but my own sense of mercy. I took no joy from seeing him in this pathetic state, turned over with hardly a hope of turning over unless someone helped them out. I have no idea how the poor thing managed to get up on the table, but I didn’t need to. All I needed to know was that there was an opportunity buried in fuzzball’s misfortune.

“How ironic. The thing you wanted most was the thing that ended up being your downfall. You can barely move, can you? Looks like we both benefit from you being like this. So… I’m gonna give you your food, and at least for today, you’re gonna let me enjoy mine. Capisce?” 

And so, Fuzz Aldrin and Phineas DuBois both agreed to a ceasefire in what historians would eventually come to dub the Purina Concord.