Tabitha squatted down and hugged the tabby

never really grow larger than two meters long. Tabby blinked at Tabitha and she poured him some water from the pitcher of blood. He liked miracles. Ancient cats were easily amused.

Tabby himself was descended from a great line of sphinxes from ancient Egypt. At least, that's what he told everyone.

But the truth was he was descendent from Leon Sphinx, the infamous loser boxer. He would watch and rewatch his grandfather's historic defeat while binging on fire cheetoh's

while ignoring the prickly heat they caused in his

mind. He couldn't concentrate. It was bad this time. He stared at the screen but his mind ran from one thing to another and would not stay still. Perhaps the solution was

lobotomy? To be free of his memories would be a blessing. How long had it been? Who was responsible? These questions tormented his addled brain, twisting in agony, writhing in

pointless neuronal activity he tried to think about why he was here. He saw the bottle of green fluid attached to the IV and wished he was comatose. Then he tugged on the tube.

The tube, being only loosely attached, fell out and the liquid dribbled out onto the floor. Horrified, he looked on as it congealed into a giggling mass and took the form of

a narcoleptic midget. His name was Sven, but no one knew that. How could they just moments before he was a giggling mass of liquid. Or was it liquid? The. End.