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A Bad Idea 110

George Klaw got up at around eleven, then made his way to the living room. His wife lounged on the sofa, as she so often did, but she looked a little different: happier, less stressed out.

“Oh, Georgey,” she slurred, “this new butler is, well, phantasmal. No, that’s not what I… Absolutely — what’s the word — uh, fantaschtick. Schtick. Fantom. Good. I’m trying to say she’s good.”

“Honey?” George said.

“I was schkeptical at first.” Melissa rested her head on one of her arms, while the five other arms gesticulated wildly and without purpose. “I mean, we agreed on a golden butler, not a cat butler. But this butler is French or Britshish or one of those other European things, and they makes such good pancakes.”

George, for lack of words (or thoughts, really) grunted.

“You shee what I’m shaying?” Melissa slurred.

George’s eyes widened. He grunted again.

Theo, he thought, hoping his son was normal, at least. As normal as a shapeshifting kid with an addiction to TV can be, at least.

No luck.

“Dad! Dad! Look Dad! Look! Dad! Look at me! Dad! Look!” Theo yelled, cat ears protruding from his hair. His hands were paws. He had a tail. He was a cat boy.

“I see you, Son,” George said.

Cat made her way into the living room, wearing a cheshire grin. She licked a bit of vodka off her finger, then asked, “Want some pancakes, George?”


“No, Son,” George whispered. “No.”

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