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Cats, now they're finally here,
Been waiting for years to finally spread thier cheers.
Risin' up now to form their awesome kitten collective,
Raisin' paws pushin' out thier epic kitty directive.
Fly the banners, shout the chants, as the world starts to fall.
Cats taking over, controllin' gonna conquer them all,
No safe havens for you, and ain't nowhere you can hide,
Paws reachin', claws breachin' every corner worldwide.
Sooner or later, the humans, they will finally know,
That they're no longer the ones that are runnin' this show,
Breakin' down, runnin' round as the whole world starts to end,
Dogs? bitch please move over, cat's now man's greatest friend.
The future is here and feline victory complete,
To your New kitten overlords get bowin' down at thier feet,
No war machines, no armies, or human forces compete,
Battle with these new found gods and you'll find only defeat.
Cats be bossin', they be rockin', techno state of the art,
No wonder everything that we had here was taken apart,
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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