As he sat in the bay window looking out at the moonlit night, Mandrake smiled to himself. No-one was home yet.
“Good,” he thought. “Hate my room-mates anyway. More me time.”
He stretched for a moment and yawned. Nighttime was when he did his best thinking, and also his best whatever the fuck he wanted.
Suddenly, without warning, he saw something in the corner of his eye. Every muscle in his body went taught as his head whipped around to see a disembodied spirit floating along the floor, darting behind the couch.
He leaped from his seat and ran over to the couch, leaping onto it and then into the wall, knocking down the framed Casablanca poster on the wall, shattering the glass. Frightened by the noise, he leapt onto the kitchen table.
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Ha! “I’m on the FUCKING kitchen table!” he thought, and then randomly scampered to the bathroom, and unrolled a full roll of toilet paper on the floor. Then he rushed to the front door and barfed in a pair of shoes he found there.
The he returned to his bay window and started grooming his anus.
“Fuck everybody!” thought Mandrake, a 24-year old chartered accountant, who was not a cat.
