FreundWerks

The Cronch's Story

2004-11-23T10:09:00.000-08:00

The Cronch doesn't like to be humped. And, The Cronch certainly doesn't like to be bitten. And, yet, it seems like every time The Cronch comes around he gets humped or, worse, bitten.

The Cronch lives in a spider hole. It's dank crevice under a shed two houses away from the food dish. Every time The Cronch gets hungry he has to run the gauntlet. Mikey will be waiting. That's when The Cronch gets bitten. And, if he survives the mad dash, things don't get much better when he reaches the food bowl. The B-Man is always happy to hump The Cronch.

Maybe it's because The Cronch likes to sing. What's wrong with singing? The Cronch sings about food. And, he sings of loneliness. Yes, The Cronch is lonely.

Why must cats hump and bite The Cronch? Why must The Cronch live in a dirty hole? When will cats accept The Cronch for The Cronch? The Cronch can't say.

B-Man's Story

2004-11-21T14:12:00.000-08:00

When I'm eating grass, I'm free to dream. Maybe it's because grass tastes so good. Almost as good as processed beef and egg, and, yet, better because I'm outside. I eat a lot of grass. More than most, for sure.

When I'm outside and dreaming, it's usually about being outside and dreaming. I can do that for hours. Until something scary comes along. Then I hide in dark places. I like to hide in an old sewer pipe. Nothing can follow me there. Well, almost nothing.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm large. Abnormally large. Andre The Giant large. Things can follow me places. That's scary. But being large has its advantages, especially when it comes to humping The Cronch. The Cronch deserves a good humping. And so it shall be.

When I'm inside, I like to spend the day in bed. It's peaceful. I like a firm mattress and a quilt. A made bed. The hours just sail away. Where did that morning go? I do like to dream.

Mikey's Story

2004-11-21T09:08:00.000-08:00

Around here I'm known as Mikey. And I get respect.

I like three things: eating, sleeping, and fighting. Well, more accurately, eating, sleeping, and kicking ass.

One time, this long-haired black cat came around. He hissed and postured. Know what I did. I ran downhill. Sunk my teeth into his neck, and used my back paws to eviscerate him. He didn't come around any more.

Or the B-Man. Tore his knees up. Sent that cat to the cat hospital.

I also like to kill rats and birds. But I just eat their hearts.

Take last night. I like to roam at night. At night, there's always a good chance for a fight. Even on the nicer residential blocks of the West Side, Oaktown can be a rough place. That's just fine.

Last night, a cold, dry wind whipped up a wild mood. Leaves and dust, mixed with blood and fury. The Cronch was on the roof of the neighbor's garage. Even with his gray coat camouflaged by the slate perch, I knew he was there. I knew if I waited long enough under the rusted out water heater, I could bite him. So I did. Musta been the hundredth time. Nothing makes me happier than smacking The Cronch.

Around here, even the people know me. Sometimes I walk to the liquor sto on the corner, and everyone says, 'Hi, Mikey.' They say I'm old as dirt. But I'm just Mikey. And I get respect.