[ meow ]

Marmalade, like most people, had an internal alarm clock that woke him up every morning at the same time, so as soon as the clock struck 6 A.M., his eyes flipped open. A small basket that until recently had been filled with condolence muffins -- sent to the house after Morgy's "death" -- had served as his bed that night. He was too large for it and looked much like a muffin himself as his fat cat parts spilled over the intricately woven wood, but since his human, Adora, had closed herself in her room the day before, he had nowhere else to go.

He stretched theatrically forward and backward before scurrying excitedly toward the stairs. Surely she would put out some milk for him and the four others to make up for her day and a half of uncharacteristic neglect of them, and his butt tingled in anticipation as he ran toward her bedroom. His flabby belly bounced from side to side in the process, but he felt little to no shame.

Seating himself primly at her door, he let out a string of shrill, expectant meows, each louder and more urgent than the previous ones.

Moments passed and nothing happened; not even the sound of stirring from within.

Again he meowed, his tummy growling with gluttonous food lust, but no response came. He checked his watch, his tail twitching with frustration, and saw that he had been crying at her door for at least twenty minutes.

"Bitch," he thought to himself, disbelieving of Adora's lack of consideration. For nearly a week, he'd been stuck eating crappy kibble -- and he didn't care that each bag of it cost her $30 -- where he should have been enjoying sumptuous wet food. Grumbling to himself, he made his way back downstairs. He would have to make a statement and voice his outrage the only way he knew how.

Downstairs in the kitchen again, he positioned himself carefully in front of the fridge and began to hork and dry heave -- as a former bulimic, this came easily to him -- until the heave was not so dry at all, and a globby mess of dry food, cat grass and hair burst forth from his esophagus.

"That oughta teach the lazy wench," he smirked as he left the crime scene and made his way to the water dish so he could clear the vomit taste from his mouth. Maybe he could get into some dairy later and leave a puddle of diarrhea for her in the litter box. And he wouldn't cover it, either. They'd all have to suffer, just like he had been.

[ meow ]

Feeling refreshed after what was a surprisingly good night's sleep, Morgana plodded lightly into the kitchen, looking forward to what she felt would be a pretty good day -- and to start this day off, wild berry toaster strudels with blue frosting packets awaited! Stifling what she promised herself would be her last yawn before night fell, she veered toward the fridge, placing one foot mechanically in front of the other.

And with the freezer handle just inches from her grasp, she found herself sliding helplessly across the kitchen floor, a shrill scream piercing through the bright, peaceful morning.

"ADORA!" she shrieked. The two storeys, closed bedroom door and Adora's tendancy to be a heavy sleeper did little to soften the intensity of the sound. "ADORA!" she yelled again, her tone more angry than frantic now.

Groaning sleepily, Adora rolled out of bed. A glance at the clock revealed that it was 10 a.m. and that she had intended to sleep for at least another two and a half hours.

"Whaaaat?" Adora asked, her voice still dry and broken from the night. She rubbed at her eyes weakly, wishing more than anything that she were still in bed.

"I stepped in puke!" Morgy raged, still speaking as though Adora were far away. "There is always god damn PUKE somewhere in this house!

"What am I supposed to do about iiit?" Adora asked crustily, her infamous morning-slash-mid-sleep bitchery in full swing. It was the kind of evil she had no control over.

"Uhhh, how about you stop collecting cats like they're stamps?"

"That's probably not going to happen," Adora said, stroking her imaginary beard thoughtfully, "and I only have five right now anyway. That's nothing in the grand scheme of things, especially in a house this large."

"I didn't build it to fill it with cats! Anyway, what's happening with your house? You've all but given up on its construction."

"Yeaaaah," Adora shrugged, "I got bored. Anyway, I don't feel like leaving the nest just yet."

"Just try to keep on top of the puking, will you?"

"Don't you have a maid?" Adora whined, slouching her back as if exhausted simply from discussing the issue.

"True... what a shitty maid."

"Eh, you're right though, I've been a shitty mother to my childrens the past couple of days. I still feel like ass and death from the whole Brian incident and I've been trying to sleep my shame off.

"Oh please, what are you so ashamed about?" Morgy snapped. "Are you letting all these morons in Sin get to you?"

"Huh... maybe that is it. That and my sexual history has been largely limited to, like... Charlie and Jeff. I guess my brain doesn't accept sex outside of the confines of monogamy as being okay. How accurate is the word confines in that context?"

"Married woman here," Morgy reminded. "Needs less phrasing things that way."

"Yessir," Adora sighed as she reached for a cloth and some disinfectant from the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. "Time to face the vomit and shit," she conceded, wrinkling her nose with distaste as Morgy slipped her dirty sock off and held it as far away from her as her arm would allow.

"Fucking gross," she murmured.

[ meow ]

Sleep had returned easily to Adora once she finished her puke sweep of the house. Some people struggled to go back to bed after being woken up -- especially after extended periods of time -- but she was happy to sleep any time she was given the opportunity. She put her stereo on random and dozed off to the sounds of Aenima in the background... "Holy crap," croaked a rather high-pitched voice that Adora barely recognized to be her own. Five withered, liver spot-coated fingers went limp and a hot pink clit massager fell to the floor as the last remnants of life twitched from her hand. If she hovered somewhere above her lifeless body, she surely felt little remorse for having been freed from it -- it had become her captor in the last few decades, a once beautiful machine that irreparably broke down a little more with each passing day. Perhaps she would have liked to have died in a less embarrassing manner, but at least she had left the world in a moment of such pleasure that she barely noticed the heart attack that did her in.

Several blocks away, an unsuspecting Morgana perused the ketchup aisle with great curiosity. Her still pink, although thinning hair sat atop her frail head in meticulously placed pin curls, and the colour sat nicely against her smart, navy blue skirt suit. She had trouble keeping her posture straight in the round-toed, chunky-heeled shoes she wore, and her frame was further pulled toward the ground by a stiff, boxy, beige purse.

"Excuse me, sonny boy," she said in a wavering voice as an extremely tall, lanky stock boy made his way past her, hoping the weird, little old lady would not bother him with weird, little old lady questions.

"You can find what you're looking for at the end of this aisle, ma'am," he replied immediately. It was a trick he'd learned on his first day on the job: old ladies often asked obvious questions in search of company, and simply directing them somewhere -- anywhere -- gave them some purpose for at least a few minutes.

"Oh," she said, her tone surprised, "Th-thank you," she stuttered, before wandering down the aisle with a perplexed look on her face. She furrowed her brows, as if struggling with all her might to remember what she had asked to garner his response. With her large purse held daintily in both hands in front of her, she peered cautiously around each corner before stepping, unnoticed, through the large, swinging doors of the butcher's area. "Is this where you keep your pink ketchup?" she asked no one in particular. "I made french fries and need some ketchup for them," she enunciated carefully, her now elderly vocal cords wavering occasionally. No reply came, so she wandered further and further back into the cold, cement room. "My, it's chilly in here," she muttered with a shiver.

Moving back into the stock area, she found a large door with a silver latch on it. She pulled it open and stepped inside, jumping slightly as it slammed harshly behind her. Boxes upon boxes of frozen french fry, corn and mixed vegetable bags greeted her. "But I already have french fries!" she exclaimed, sounding almost sad. With a sigh, she turned back to the door only to find that there was no latch or handle or knob from the inside. She was trapped and Adora would be so mad if she didn't hurry back.

Hours passed into days and days into a week, and a strike at the grocery store left little, old Morgana undiscovered, just barely surviving on fries and vegetables she thawed with her buttcheeks. A plastic blanket made of empty food bags kept her warm during what she assumed to be the night -- even in her old age, you couldn't call her unclever.

Adora's sixty-three cats had, by then, grown quite restless from neglect. The many litter boxes that lined the hallways of Morgana's once august mansion contained gravel so thoroughly saturated that they became bricks, and the cats had taken to vengefully peeing on furniture and carpets.

Survival was a tricky thing, and as much as they loved the old woman who had taken them in and cared for them, the steady increase of decay in the air told them she was no longer their mother.

It was her eyes that they ate first, maybe because they didn't want her watching them as they ate the rest of her, accusing them silently for their ungratefulness. But she wouldn't have cared; she would have been happy to give her last wordly possession -- her body -- to the animals that saved her from loneliness for as long as she could remember.

The smell of urine, rot and feces accosted the nostrils of all who entered the home once concerned neighbours reported lack of activity in the Ashton-Reed household, and authorities were called in to investigate. The old woman's face was contorted into what looked like a smugly ecstatic expression, as if being discovered dead with gaping holes where fleshy patches of muscle should have been was her goal all along.

Content that her furry companions had been discovered and would be properly cared for -- her entire estate was left to them, after all -- the old woman could peacefully cross over. A smooth, olive-skinned hand reached out to her on the other side of the light, and she stepped eagerly from one plane of existence to another.

"Jesus Christ, woman," Morgy exclaimed, tugging violently at Adora's pillow, which was firmly held in her embrace. "Stop sucking face with that thing!"

"Mmmm, Chr Cornl," came Adora's voice, muffled by the material in her mouth.

"Oh god, dreaming about Chris Cornell, are we?" Morgy asked, as if Adora would reply. Tugging firmly once more at the pillow, Morgy loosened it from her friend's grip and startled her awake at the same time. "What the hell were you dreaming about?" she asked as Adora's eyelids fluttered open. He friend didn't reply immediately, but instead raised a hand to her face and examined it thoroughly.

"No liver spots," she mumbled. "Thank fuck."

"I should hope not."

"If I'm not married by the time I'm forty, can I marry into you and Tim?" Adora asked, looking hopefully up at Morgana, her eyes still squinting from sleep.

"Don't you worry, Dorita. I'll always be here to wake you from your deranged dreams and to listen to your retarded musings," Morgy assured her.

"Somehow, that doesn't sound as comforting now as it would have before this nap. Just swear to me that we'll leave the fading into obscurity to those who actually deserve it, okay?" she pleaded. "I've seen the alternative, and it ain't pretty."

"I promise."

[ eternity #11 ]

This isn't really related to Eternity -- as far as I know, that is -- but it needs some more addressing anyway: my stalker! I don't know, maybe they're more of a deranged fan or just someone haterading on me like I'm Star Jones, but either way, I couldn't care less. I will say that they're mildly amusing, even with the oh-so tasteful decline of their letters and pictures into just plain insulting.

I'm trying to figure out if the knee cap thing was a stab at my apparently enormous, whorey vagina -- which this person never has and never will have the pleasure of touching, seeing, smelling or tasting -- or if it was a melancholy observation of his own genitals, whose wee size apparently barely allows him to penetrate the pee hole in his boxers, let alone a real, live pussy. This is, of course, assuming we're dealing with a man. I can't pick between effeminate male and bulldykey female. Frankly, I'm not into either.

Either way, please hurry up and unveil yourself so we can all gasp, clutch at our throats and move on. And if you know what's good for you, you'll look like Jeff Hardy.

As for my opponents... well, please excuse me while I stifle a yawn. Do they really deserve any more shots at proving how glorious they are? Because it's getting kind of boring to watch them fail repeatedly. I'm not sure that they even want more matches against Team Wifey, because judging by Shane Donovan's spectacular show in our last match, team morale is down and they see the futility in it all.

But I guess it's not Team Wifey versus Team Hall of Fame this time around; it's more like Team Wifey-Swingy versus Team Unfortunate Has-Beens (Now with more weapons, motherfucker!!). But seriously, what am I supposed to say about these people? Donovan and Casanova are too busy philosophizing to make decent showings -- who needs to do their job properly, anyway? -- and Destiny Daniels is getting worse and worse at convincing us that she's not a man. Or a young boy with the personality of an angsty cripple, anyway.

Frankly, there's very little I can say that will make them take me seriously or say anything but slutslutslut whenever I'm mentioned. I can see it now: they're going to call me out on supposedly being a skanky Morgana carbon copy who's just riding that wave of success to gain her own. Fine. Nothing we haven't heard before, and nothing that can't be easily disproven by having a gander at archives, records and statistics. I just don't understand why they think they're justified in such claims when what all three of them are essentially doing is trying desperately to claw and stretch whatever fifteen minutes of fame they mustered for themselves in previous SW stints, into fifteen more.

Yeah, each of you had respect and all that jazz back when there was little competition for it, but that just doesn't count anymore. You might want to try doing something now to stay relevant, because coasting on the fact that you once were revered is a waste of all of our time.

Morgy and I had our places in wrestling greatness, oh, two and a half and four years ago, respectively, but since no one actually gives a fuck about that, we've forged our own places in SW. When I examine your triumphant returns here, all I see is a bunch of failed matches against us. Your former glory granted you positions on the upper card, because everyone wanted to see if a couple of newcomers could take on so-called Sin legends. Well, the answer to that was revealed to be a resounding 'no,' so why are you still here?

Fret not, I can answer that too: The only reason you still are on said upper card is because all of you keep doing stupid shit to convince yourselves, if no one else, that you are as hawesome as you thought. Animal blood, retarded stipulations on matches, cheating and... I don't know, what was that boat crap all about? What are you, terrorists now? Yeah, that was good stuff. That totally shows how all three of you deserve to be champions, because you'd so obviously defend your titles honestly and fairly, based on your merits alone.

I believe Alf said it best when he scoffed: "Ha!"

Other than that hilarity, there was an influx of newbies again... now, I was going to show that I'm not so much a cunt as I am a little vain by not ragging on JNX, because he's hotter than your average moron. But smarter than that he is not!

Listen honey bunny, you didn't prove anything to anyone by winning one match, and if you think you did, you're quite mistaken. Look at it this way: my record is perfect, except for being eliminated from Over The Top Rope 3 by Stryker Graff (someone who was no longer even in the match) -- and still no one will give me any credit. Still I've apparently just sucked my way to the top (yeah, I guess I missed Stryker Graff in my cocksucking rounds that day). Either way, you're going to need to pony up a lot more than one win to prove yourself the king shit of this place, okay?

And your Portuguese could use some work, too (sorry Stevie, I know you hate my grammar Naziism, but some things are too hard to ignore). I assumed you meant to say "The time is now," and that was confirmed at the end of your promo. Sadly, what you really said is, "The time and now." Watch out for those accents, okay? I know they seem trivial, but they can drastically change the meanings of words in other languages.

And please, no one lose their shit on me here, because I'm not even touching the various things I could say about his English. Regardless, I think the phrase he was going for was, "O tempo � agora." And if the time is now, I hope you'll actually demonstrate your awesome-a powah quickly, instead of having your ass repeatedly handed to you, like everyone else in this place has had happen after their insane rantings about entitlement.

I'm looking at you, dearest opponents.