The Daily Fix

A woman once told  me that if a gigantic cat ever burst through her wall of cannabis which was really four walls and a ceiling (more like a cage), she would most likely reach for her insect repellent. A year later, when one did do that, it ate her and left the Acapulco Gold to its cousin, who was a Mexican dope dealer. This is all well and good, but in Canada, where this woman lived, the Sperm Cat (I was trying to do a cross between a Sperm Whale and a cat there, but it didn’t really work; unfortunate feline) had to have three visas and a passport photo before it could even think about crossing the border, and had to have a job at Tim Horton’s before the marijuana was applicable to anything but pain and alienation. Furball decided to become a barrista, but couldn’t pass the bar without drinking, and so became a full-blown alcoholic gigantic kitty with at least twelve pounds of high-grade Gateway Drug on its paws. This could be a problem to some, for it’s very hard to work at Tim Horton’s while drunk and worried about your conspicuous stash, but Furball persevered until she (he?) met the trucker of his (her?) dreams at the end of a rope after a sullen AA meeting where everybody mostly directed their intense self-hatred and pity at their shoes, tucking away furtive glances of the more attractive attendants during the awkwardly swollen pauses and sniffling. It’s alleged that the tires were purposefully slashed, but for whatever reason the trucker got married to Daisy, a nice girl who worked the shift before Furball’s at Tim Horton’s. The two settled down and swam upstream a lot, but a Kodiak always seemed to snare Daisy from her coital preoccupations before the real spawning started. The trucker smoked all twelve or so pounds in a month, ounce by ounce. He left his bowl only to eat and to watch dirty videos Daisy rented on the way home from the convenience store she now worked at. At the end of the month, when Furball hit bottom, the trucker put some slack into his routine. Not enough, apparently. His lungs gave out, and at the hospital, he conceived a child with Daisy before promptly dying of cardiac arrest. The cat took all its money back, convinced Daisy to take abortive measures and then call it in the morning, ditched the morning, and then shot itself in a rented Chevy Malibu in front of a cornfield. When the coroner found out it was actually an escaped mascot for the local high school, he called upon three plucky teens: one fat yet uproariously gregarious, one socially awkward and sexually frustrated, and then one hot, wet, gorgeous, and just 18. This quickly devolved into smut.