Bob-cat

Bob goes to work at 7 am. He wakes up at 6, gets out of bed to turn off the screeching alarm, goes to the bathroom where he pisses in the rusty toilet (he never misses, not even a drop!), washes his face and hands (in that order), brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. Then, he moves to the kitchen, one step away from the bathroom door. Today he cracks two eggs. The slippery membrane of the yolk breaks and the sick and pale yellow substance spills on the side of the unnatural, bleach-white eggshell. He dumps it in a bowl and beats it with his fork. Two slices of fatty bacon go into the cold pan, then, when they start sizzling, in go the eggs. The stove isn't working properly, so he eats the half-raw half-cooked mixture straight from the pan, gulping it down without chewing. He dumps the pan in the already full sink, puts on his shoes and leaves, locking the door 5 times.

On the way to work, he stops once he sees the black cat cross the road. On his left is the narrow street with the dumpster he usually gets his coffee from. But today, he's in a rush.

"It's a big day today, Bob!" the black cat whispers coarsely in his ear, grinning with long sharp teeth. Bob doesn't say anything. He just keeps moving, passing by all-glass high rises and cardboard boxes, millionaires and homeless people, trash bags flying in the wind.

"You must stay focused, Bob!" the cat shouts from behind a pile of cardboard.

Bob wakes up, sweating, feeling an itch at the base of his throat. He can't scratch it, so he starts coughing. It feels slimy and suffocating, like he is about to throw up, but without the nausea. Gagging, his body convulses violently, and he spits out a ball of black fur. Mr Swiny is still sleeping peacefully at his feet, but when he looks back at the fur in his hands, he sees the tail of the cat.

"You're going to be late, Bob!" the cat screeches. Bob jumps out of his bed. The duvet flings Mr Swiny in the air. It turns 180 degrees and lands with its claws inside the wall. Bob, still with the cat tail in his hand, puts on his slippers, the white socks curving around the toe strap, and rushes out the door. The wooden door leading out of the flat seems to be getting further and further away. The corridor starts melting like candle wax, revealing a white sterile room with a white leather chair in the middle.

"You're probably wondering why you're here, Bob," says God. But when the chair turns, it's not Him speaking, it's Mr Swiny, sitting in his lap, grinning. "You're dying, Bob. This is your last warning. You have to wake up. You can't keep shooting up heroin in the back of the Subway after your shifts with Henk. He has AIDS because he likes men a little bit too much, and now you have it too. There is no going back now, Bob. Unless…"

"Unless, what, Mr Swiny?" Bob's voice was shaking.

"Oh, Bob! It's not Mr Swiny speaking. It's me, God!" the cat points at the tall man with a blurry face and long white hair. There was a pause, as if God expected Bob to say something but he just stared. "Unless you help me with something," said the man finally.

"Thanks for the offer, God, but I think I'll sit this one out. I've been thinking about it, and I concluded I am ready to let go," said Bob calmly.

"Oh..."

"But... but what about me, Bob?!" screeches Mr Swiny. "Who will feed me? Are you just going to let me die?"

"You didn't complain about this," Bob says swinging the tail around. "So, you're not real. This is not real."

"Very smart of you, Bob, but I assure you, hell is real," Mr Swiny says, unclenching its jaws. They expand, enveloping Bob whole.

It's dark and wet inside the cat's mouth. The tongue Bob is sitting on is coarse but mushy. When he takes a step, he stumbles slightly, almost falling down the slide to the stomach. He didn't want to get there again. Last time it was too hot, he felt like he was burning alive. This time, he would be more careful. He decided to wait it out.

But there was no escape this time. That's it. Darkness. Wetness. Nothing else. Forever.

Ha Ha, Bob!