The scene was a massacre – white confetti littered the cold tile, spilling over the threshold into the next room. Whoever did this respected no boundaries. The roll’s remains, full of more holes than a politician’s alibi, slumped in the corner like a forgotten communion wafer stuck to the tongue of a sinner. Beaker sauntered through the carnage, tail nicked and bleeding, eyes saying he’d seen it all but wouldn’t talk. Somewhere under the bed, Sassy was lying low, and I had a hunch one of them knew exactly who pulled the first shred.
Beaker sniffed at the roll but made no eye contact as he left me to my work. I watched him leave, wishing I could interrogate him, but the timing wasn’t right. First, I needed to work the scene.
What I wouldn’t give for a good ol’ cup o’ joe right now. It was too early, and in my brain fog I worried I might miss something. My gut said it had been Sassy all along. The Sasquatch had a rap sheet of shredded toilet rolls – he’d even been caught red-pawed. But Beaker being first on scene raised red flags. Was he merely a curious cat? Or testing the evidence for his scent before I could bag it? He’d been acting strange lately, and word on the street was he’d been dipping his whiskers in something stronger than cream. Bias is poison in this line of work. Follow the evidence, or it could bury you.
The evidence:
Exhibit A: A blizzard of tiny, snow-like shreds – the wild abandon of this criminal! He had time to play and no fear of witnesses.
Exhibit B: Deep claw-holes carved through the roll – a bigger perp, heavier paw.
Exhibit C: The paper on the roll left useless, comet tails dragging from layer after layer – this cat had no conscience.
Exhibit D: Rust-colored smears on one end of the roll. Blood. Always blood.
The blood haunted me – Beaker was the only bleeding suspect. No question I needed my morning jolt of caffeine. He had been dragged into Sassy’s crimes before, but this level of carnage… It was too much to consider. Meanwhile, Sassy had made himself scarce. Not just out of sight, but without a sound. From a loudmouth? The silence spoke volumes. No surprise if he was involved, so I sealed the crime scene and went out for my hit of energy. Everyone has their vices, and this was mine. Sue me.
Cleaning up the scene later, I knew the truth: both collars were dirty. The old pro Sasquatch had the size and the history – massacres of this scale plus the deep claw marks. They called him Sasquatch for a reason. Beaker – the runt, the supposed innocent – had the blood on his tail. My heart sank. The golden boy had fallen. The whispers were true: sobriety wasn’t his strong suit anymore.
Will locking them up together set them straight… or just make them meaner? Time has the answers. But it doesn’t give them cheap.
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| Beaker, sniffing around the evidence |
Explanation: Yes, we have two cats now. Yes, this is a true story. However, to defend the innocent: Beaker's drugs are prescription, due to a recent rat bite.
