#Rat Columns

[bandcampsnoop]

3/1/24.

Jason Morgan (Bays) has been releasing excellent music as The Spires (Ventura, California) since the early 2000s. Seriously, this is some of the most consistently good pop I've heard over the past 20 years.

"Index" is the new 7" from The Spires. It comes hot on the heels of the CD/Cassette "Woke Up Strange" last June.

It's funny, I know the Velvet Underground and The Chills are among Jason's favorite bands. But his music doesn't really sound like either. And his vocals/melodies are unmistakably his own. I would say that Rat Columns, The Planes and Tam Vantage are the bands I listen to that most remind me of The Spires.

Artificial Light is releasing this extremely limited lathe cut 7".

[rat-at-heart]

It's full of a lot of stuff Reggie already knows, but the celebrity alpaca gossip column always keeps him coming back for more

[fictionadventurer]

Top 5 Arthur episodes?

D.W. Goes to Washington: It's a very close race between this one and #2, but I gave the edge to this one because almost every line here is classic. It's full of hilarious Imagine Spots and great D.W. zingers.

The Rat Who Came to Dinner: Another episode that's full of great jokes. The dynamic between Ratburn and Arthur's family is comedy gold.

The Contest: The pastiches of different animation styles alone puts this one in the top five, but it's also in service of some wonderfully absurd mini-stories with classic jokes. ("My brain was on cruise control" is the Arthur quote that gets the most use in daily life).

Buster Hits the Books: The pastiches of the different books are hilarious.

Arthur's Almost Boring Day: I had a very tough time choosing the fifth episode. I went with this one because the fighting between Arthur and D.W. reaches a hilarious fever pitch that goes beyond any other episode.

[twistedsamuraiadvice]

Advice for solving my rat problem. I hope this is the sort of advice you give.

Second Reader,

Rats are not an issue i commonly deal with, but were a real problem when I was in prison. Taka's presence helped greatly, though I begged her not to actually consume the things...I knew they put out poison out for the animals.

I would recommend ensuring every food you have be kept in air-tight containers. Rats can chew through much more then Mice can, but if they can't smell food, they'll be less likely to try. Metal cans are good for this, but not the only option. If they have already discovered where you keep yours, you may try moving your storage. Anything they have already gotten open must be disposed of immediately.

If you know of a way for rats to get in, do your best to seal it. an open crawl space is an invitation, even without their ability to chew a new entry point. You can not truly rat-proof your home, but you can insure they work for it.

Set out traps, and do not balk at the idea of lethal ones. It is well and good to respect the lives of animals, but if they stay you will be at risk for serious illness, and if you release them elsewhere then they will scourge another family instead. Releasing them far away from humans is merely turning them lose on an unsuspecting wild population-either they will die, or the animals they meet will. besides that, releasing rodentia is often illegal, for exactly the reasons I just listed. Better to give them a swift death then prolonging suffering-do not subject them to starvation and harsh weather. Kill them to start.

Now, for the other options...you may either get a ratter, or you may poison them. DO NOT UTILIZE BOTH. Taka made herself ill once eating rats that had been poisoned whilst I was in prison, and it was a bloody fucking nightmare. Thankfully, the likelihood of your hunter getting poisoned by the prey is rare, a dose low enough for a rat to survive is typically low enough for your hunter to manage, but it's not worth the risk.

On that note, if you do intend to get a ratter, be aware of possible symptoms. Rats carry illness, and while a Cat is designed to feed on meat, you need to be aware of possible parasites they may pick up. Keep a veterinarian posted of any change in behavior.

If all else fails, Call an exterminator. Stay somewhere else while they work, and return home, hopefully rat free.

Death is part of life, and your home is your castle. Feel no sympathy for the rats who care not for you.

-Simon Blackquill

[itstimetodrew]

Always wondering if I pick up traits from favorite characters or if they became my favorite because I already had those traits…

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

Monday work gripe of the week: my reasonably intelligent coworker who is the same age as me could not successfully copy/paste data from one excel sheet to another

[hotniatheron]

i love showing tornadoes to people who live in places that have never had them bc it never fails to freak them out

[qspades]

Exquisite oriental architecture at Swaminarayan Temple in Bhuj / India

[iydiamartinx]

GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 1.2k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: This is pure angst

No one ever thought you and Jason Todd would end up together.

You were the golden girl—popular, bubbly, a social butterfly who floated from group to group with effortless grace. You knew everyone’s name, everyone’s birthday, everyone’s favorite coffee order. You had that kind of charm that made teachers forgive late homework, and classmates fight for your approval. People naturally orbited around you.

And Jason… Jason was the boy who stood alone.

The charity case. Bruce Wayne’s rough-edged, sharp-tongued “adopted street rat,” as the crueler whispers called him. A scholarship student wrapped in too much leather and too little patience, with bruised knuckles and the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young. He stalked the polished marble halls of Gotham Academy like a stray that hadn’t decided if it wanted to bite or bolt—silent, coiled, simmering with something cold beneath the surface.

But somehow, despite all odds, you found each other.

Or maybe it was more than luck. Maybe you saw him before anyone else did. Not just the scowl or the temper, not the bruises he didn’t talk about or the chip on his shoulder the size of Gotham itself—but the way he flinched when kindness came too close. The way he looked at the world like it was always about to hit back.

You were his first real friend.

Then his first real kiss.

Then—somehow, impossibly—his girlfriend.

You, the glittering darling of Gotham Academy.

Him, the boy no one accepted.

And tonight—tonight was supposed to be the proof that fairytales existed. Even here. Even for people like him.

Prom night shimmered around you like a dream made of gold and silk and champagne bubbles. Fairy lights clung to the columns. Strings of live violin music floated through the ballroom like perfume. Everything was perfect. Or it would’ve been.

If only Jason had shown up.

You stood at the edge of the gymnasium-turned-ballroom, the lights from the crystal chandelier scattering across the glossy floor like broken glass. Laughter and music swirled around you in an endless tide. Your dress shimmered under the lights—custom-designed, pearl-dusted tulle hugging your frame like magic. But you didn’t feel like a princess. Not tonight.

You clutched the corsage in your hand, petals bruised and wilting from how tightly you were holding it.

You kept glancing at the entrance.

Any second now.

He promised.

Jason Todd had never wanted to come in the first place. He thought it was stupid. A waste of time. A glittery charade for people who didn’t know what the real world looked like.

But you had begged him. Pleaded. Teased him until he sighed dramatically and muttered something about you being “a pain in the ass,” even as his lips curled at the corners. You had taken his hand in both of yours and asked for just one night. One normal night. One where you could pretend you were just two kids in love and not walking toward two very different futures.

He’d promised. He said yes.

And Jason never broke his promises.

Which is why your stomach kept twisting tighter with every passing minute.

You tried not to let it show. You laughed when your friends came up to talk, smiled for photos you didn’t want to be in, let them drag you across the dance floor. But your eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. The doors.

The night blurred around you. Until—

A hush fell over the room. The headmaster appeared at the mic. “And now,” he declared, “your Prom Queen for the Class of Gotham Academy…”

He said your name.

There were cheers. Applause. Screams of delight.

Hands pushed you forward. You walked up to the stage, smile fixed tight, heart racing—but not from nerves. From disappointment. From dread.

They placed the crown on your head. Not some plastic tiara. No—this was Gotham Academy. The crown was real silver, hand-crafted, inlaid with pearls and tiny diamonds. Cold and dazzling and utterly meaningless. Applause echoed through the ballroom, thundering against the marble columns and crystal chandeliers, but it all felt distant. Muffled. Like you were underwater, watching your own life from behind a pane of glass.

You stood beneath the spotlights, all eyes on you, smiling like you were supposed to, the symbol of perfection. Of success. Of everything Jason Todd had said he didn’t belong to. Meanwhile, on the inside your heart quietly splintered beneath your ribs.

You smiled for the pictures. Smiled as the camera flashes blinded you, one after another like gunfire. Smiled even as your hand tightened around the crushed corsage still clutched at your side, the satin ribbon frayed from hours of waiting.

Still, you told yourself—maybe he would come.

Maybe he was just late.

Maybe he was on his way, grumbling in that low, familiar voice, cursing the idea of prom while secretly tugging at the collar of a rented tux. Maybe the night would still end with his arms around you, forehead resting against yours, whispering something only you got to hear.

But Jason Todd didn’t show.

Not for the crown.

Not for the dance.

Not for you.

When you got home, you didn’t speak a word. You walked straight past your parents’ smiles, straight up to your room, and locked the door behind you. You stood in front of the mirror and stared at yourself—at the girl everyone had cheered for. The girl draped in silk and pearls and promises.

And then you tore the crown from your head and threw it across the room.

It hit the wall with a dull clatter and landed in the corner like a discarded lie.

You cried that night.

Not the soft, pretty kind of tears—the kind that stained silk pillows and left glitter-smudged mascara streaks. These were the messy kind. Ugly. Violent. Hot, angry tears that came with clenched fists and broken sobs. You cried until your voice gave out, until your chest ached from the effort of keeping yourself together.

Downstairs, you didn’t hear the phone ring.

Didn’t hear your mother answer it with a quiet hello.

Didn’t hear her voice tremble as Bruce Wayne—Jason’s guardian, Jason’s father in all but name—asked if you were awake.

He didn’t know how to say it.

Didn’t know how to explain what had happened.

Didn’t know how to break the kind of truth that didn’t just hurt—but hollowed out everything inside a person.

Because while you stood beneath golden lights, crowned and smiling through clenched teeth, Jason Todd had been bleeding out in the dark.

Alone.

Bloody.

Betrayed.

Chasing a mother who’d never loved him.

A woman he had gone halfway across the world to find, carrying nothing but hope and the naïve belief that maybe—just maybe—someone he shared blood with could want him back.

He had found her.

And she had handed him over.

Sold him out to the Joker like he was nothing. Like he hadn’t once been a little boy who only ever wanted a home.

You didn’t know—not yet—that while you danced beneath chandeliers and swallowed your heartache like champagne, Jason had already taken his last breath.

You didn’t know that while your name was being called, while the crowd cheered and the cameras flashed, Jason Todd was lying broken on cold concrete—his blood painting the floor, his body mangled and bruised, a cruel echo of the boy you loved.

He hadn’t stood you up.

He hadn’t broken his promise.

He had just trusted the wrong person.

And paid the price.

Next Chapter →

[bandcampsnoop]

7/28/23.

I was flipping through my stacks and noticed that I've collected quite a few Rat Columns releases over the years. I've always enjoyed David West's work in Rat Columns (and other bands - especially Rank/Xerox)

Listening to "Thrift Store" from The Planes (Brooklyn, New York) upcoming LP "Dark Matter Recycling Co." really recalled the kind of indie pop peddled by Rat Columns. There's also a bit of The Suncharms, Constant Smiles and The Spires.

According to Austin Town Hall, this is a joint release between Totally Real Records (US) and Safe Suburban Homes (UK).

[travelaroundtheworld82]

Exquisite oriental architecture at Swaminarayan Temple in Bhuj / India

[lyxthen-reblogs]

...Thank you for reminding me I should be writing essay about Ace Attorney (<-We were assigned to pick a form of "unconventional media" that relates to a relevant social problem, in this case corruption) for my aesthetics class.

You don't understand I need him to be a bitch...

Wanted to sorta further explore what Feen would have been as an art major and the type of behavior that goes alongside it. I have seen some discussions about his characterization and it made my gears turn.

Just, the idea of him being just as petty back then is hilarious to me. Most likely had much less of a filter than at the present. Bro would act like he knows everything and if you dared to question his sense of aesthetics, you'd be called a philistine.

He most likely was quite knowledgeable about dramatic literature and art, also eloquent too since its kinda needed in that department. Probs used fancy frou frou talk for art and drama analysis. Art majors be that way. He would be insufferable.

[gimmethatagustd]

oxygen | jjk

If you get caught, you'll both die. Jungkook wants to be yours anyway.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Mafia, established relationship, angst, smut

Word Count: 2,053

Content Warning: Organized crime, toxic relationship, emotional manipulation, infidelity, marijuana (is it a jai fic if weed isn't at least mentioned?), casual conversation about being murdered, sub Jungkook, gunplay, consensual sex while under the influence of alcohol, vaginal sex, orgasm control, hair pulling, rough sex, pain kink

A/N: Idk what I was thinking when I wrote this back in the day, but it was for Valentine's day last year so huhhh.

Soundtrack: Oxygen - Jackson Wang

“I fucking hate you.”

Jungkook tastes blood as he watches you stumble up the marble stairs, break-ankle stilettos grating into the stone like his molars grate against each other when he chews the inside of his cheek.

It takes three steps before you give up, bending to slip your finger under the thin black strap that hugs each ankle to keep the red bottoms in place. Off-balanced from holding your leather jacket balled up under one arm, you teeter on one foot, and Jungkook has to fight the urge to grab your waist.

Air rushes out of Jungkook’s nostrils, a scoff that mixes with the wind. It’s one of the last days of summer before autumn cuts the nights short and chills the air. If Jungkook could have his way, he would be sitting out on his balcony right now with a fat blunt and his phone on silent.

Instead, he’s dealing with you.

“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna fucking help me?” you snap, words slurring together when you pout through them.

Jungkook tongues the inside of his cheek where he’s bitten into the fleshy skin. The metallic flavor mixes oddly with the aftertaste of his half-smoked blunt from earlier.

“Thought you said you hate me,” Jungkook sucks his teeth, tattooed fingers squeezing your bicep to steady you while you unclasp your shoes.

“I do.”

“Hmm.” Jungkook exchanges a grip on your arm for the heels, black and deadly like the Glock clipped to his waist.

Your dress rides up far enough that your asscheeks are exposed when you bend down again, your skimpy black thong doing nothing to cover you. The sheer pair is one Yoongi bought you for Valentine’s Day last year. Yoongi hadn’t batted an eye when he dropped thousands of dollars on a lingerie set that he isn’t even patient enough to appreciate on your body before he rips it off.

Not Jungkook, though. Jungkook is patient.

“Carry me,” you whine, pushing up against Jungkook’s side, nimble fingers wrapping around his wrist and tugging.

Jungkook knows not to look up at the columned overhang, but the many cameras lining the mansion’s exterior weigh heavily on him as he helps you up the stairs to the front door.

“I can’t,” Jungkook grits his molars, jaw flexing beneath taunt skin, “And you know that.”

The keypad at the front door unlocks with Jungkook’s thumbprint. Inside, the foyer is dark. It’s nearly four in the morning, and the rest of the guards are either monitoring the cameras or asleep. They’re all lower-level and easily bend to Jungkook’s will, meaning none of them will rat you out for slipping off in the dead of night to go party with your friends despite being under strict orders not to leave the house until Yoongi returns from his business trip.

As second-in-command, Jungkook should be in Japan with Yoongi, handling what will likely be one of the largest arms deals in Bangtan’s history. But Yoongi is paranoid, and paranoid men don’t leave their girlfriends with just anyone. Especially when their girlfriends are trouble.

And you? You’re trouble in a tight little black dress, hips swaying as you walk with new purpose through the foyer, your leather jacket thrown on the floor for Jungkook to pick up as he trails behind you — always trailing, following just a half step behind you, only in front when he puts his life on the line over yours. And he does, has the scars on his body to prove it, scars you like to bite to remind him of everything he’s willing to lose for Yoongi. For you.

There are only three types of rooms in the house that don’t have cameras installed: bedrooms, bathrooms, and arms rooms. You like to have Jungkook fuck you in all of them.

Tonight, it’s one of the basement-level arms rooms, the one Yoongi likes to use for entertainment because there’s a full bar and a conference table typically littered with guns, drugs, and money.

And sometimes, if Yoongi is in a shitty mood, girls.

You don’t care what Yoongi does, though it wouldn’t matter even if you did. As Bangtan’s leader, there’s no room for criticism of the boss — unless someone wants to lose a limb or their life, and Yoongi is known to be trigger-happy.

You learned that from him.

Jungkook lets out a shuddered breath as you drag the muzzle of his gun from the middle of his sternum down his abdomen. The metal is cold, and you move slowly, taking your time over every hill and valley of his muscles, painting goosebumps across his skin until you reach the waistband of his underwear.

The chamber is empty, but it still makes Jungkook’s heart jump in his throat when you press the gun against his clothed cock.

“Yoongi is going to kill us one day,” you whisper, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth to bite back a smile.

Jungkook leans back with his elbows against the table where you’ve sat him at one of the chairs. You’re in your heels again. Jungkook loves it when you stand over him, a powerful force far too often squandered by Yoongi’s overbearing leadership and desire to be the most feared person in the room. It’s one of Yoongi’s greatest mistakes.

You’re gorgeous, stripped down until all you’re wearing is another man’s Valentine’s Day gift, your own body a present Jungkook has the unholy pleasure of opening again and again — but only after you’ve opened him up, gutted him like a fish.

Or blown him open, a bullet bursting like shrapnel to cut him from the inside out. Jungkook would let you do it.

Jungkook stares up at you with innocent eyes that tell nothing of the secret horrors his hands have done, of the horrors he has endured and inflicted upon others. He stares up at you with innocent eyes and his lips wrapped around the muzzle of his gun that you hold with your finger on the trigger.

“Bang, bang,” you giggle as the gun clicks, and Jungkook lets you slide it further into his mouth, the tangy taste too similar to blood and nothing he hasn’t tasted before.

Maybe it’s fear that makes Jungkook crave you. Maybe Jungkook has a death wish. Maybe Jungkook likes the idea of you being his lifeline, the sole decider of whether he lives or dies. All it would take is one tiny confession twisted into a lie, and you could convince Yoongi that Jungkook came onto you and tried to seduce you.

Jungkook knows Yoongi would enjoy making him suffer if he thought Jungkook was treating you unkindly. Yoongi would enjoy violently murdering Jungkook even more if he knew just how good Jungkook treated you.

You don’t pull the gun back until Jungkook gags. Tears collect along his eyelashes, but he blinks them away as you toss his gun onto the table.

“You’d let him kill you.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook’s voice is hoarse from the gun, and it cracks when you sit on the table in front of him and spread your legs. “I would.”

“You’re fucking stupid.”

“So are you.”

Jungkook’s cock throbs as he watches you slip your thong down your legs. You drag his spit-slicked gun along your dripping pussy, parting your folds and getting the muzzle shiny with your arousal. When his eyes flit up to meet yours, you let out a broken moan, tongue slipping out to lick your bottom lip.

“Come here,” you beckon, the curl of your finger tugging Jungkook forward like a red string tied in a noose around his neck. He fits perfectly between your thighs, his clothed cock pressing against your exposed pussy.

“Can I kiss you?” Jungkook whispers against your lips. His body crowds yours, forcing you to tip your head back to look into his pretty doe eyes.

“Be a good boy and clean this up first,” you say as you hold up the gun in front of Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook doesn’t look away as he licks a stripe up the length of the gun’s muzzle, too turned on by how intensely you watch him lick and suck your juices off it. How eagerly he bends to your will is pathetic, but he doesn’t care.

When you toss his gun away to dig your nails in his hair and tug him into a bruising kiss, Jungkook feels like he can finally breathe.

You taste sweet, like whatever fruity cocktails you’d been drinking with your friends. Jungkook sucks your tongue, and he feels the vibration of your moans go straight to his leaking cock.

“Fuck me,” you moan with nails in his back, “And make it hurt.”

Jungkook helps you off the table to bend you over it. He may prefer sex that is slow and face-to-face, but Yoongi is coming home in a few hours, and sometimes, you like to punish yourself by denying yourself the sweet, sensual care that Jungkook prefers to give you. Sometimes you like it dirty and fast like this, Jungkook fucking into you with your wrists behind your back and your face pressed into the conference table’s cold, sleek surface.

You look forward to the tender bruise you’ll have on the apple of your cheek and against your hips from where Jungkook fucks you hard enough that you slam into the edge of the table. It’s a gamble, wondering if this will be the time Yoongi finally notices.

Sometimes Jungkook wonders if Yoongi already has noticed, and he’s just biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to kill you both.

“Fuck, jagi,” Jungkook moans. The table squeaks and grunts as the force of Jungkook fucking you pushes the table back and forth across the floor.

“Do I feel good, baby?” you gasp, twisting your hands in Jungkook’s so you can wrap your fingers around his wrist, too, to have something to hold onto.

“So good,” Jungkook whimpers, tightening his grip on your wrists. “Can I cum? Please?”

Your skin is probably chafing from how hard you’re being bounced against the table, but all you do is moan and clench around Jungkook’s cock, taunting him.

“Jagi, please,” Jungkook begs, hips faltering slightly. You’re so wet and creamy. There’s something about fucking you in the arms room that always makes you feel and sound better.

“You wanna cum? Baby boy wants to cum?”

“Wanna cum so bad, you feel so, fuck, so, so good.”

Jungkook lets go of your wrists to dig his fingers into your hips and pull you onto his cock with each thrust. You lift off the table slightly so he can wrap one arm around your waist and slip his fingers through your folds, playing with your clit as he fucks you. He knows he needs to make you cum first before you’ll let him.

“Just like that, you’re doing so well,” you pant, pussy clenching and pulsing around Jungkook’s cock so hotly that he knows you’re going to cum soon.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long. Jungkook has you so worked up that you cum once he pinches your clit, rolling it between his fingers while you writhe and squirm on his cock, whimpering his name.

“Come on, baby,” you moan, “Cum for me, now.”

Tilting your head up, you let Jungkook kiss you. He squeezes his eyes shut as he cums inside you, mouth hanging open and completely useless to kiss, so you press light kisses along his sweaty throat instead.

“Thank you,” Jungkook whispers once his body has calmed down, gently easing out of you. His hands shake as he collapses into the chair and pulls you into his lap.

You kiss him properly this time, sliding your hands through his sweaty hair. He’s pussy-drunk, fucked dumb, nothing but static in his head as your lips glide with his. He could stay like this, pliant like clay in your hands, let you mold him into whatever you want him to be. Let you make or break him. Jungkook doesn’t care.

“Tell me you love me,” you demand, nails sharp against Jungkook’s scalp.

“Jagi,” Jungkook whimpers when you pull his hair, “I love you so much. I love you more than anything.”

“More than yourself?”

“More than myself.”

You hum into the next kiss, and Jungkook feels his body melt. 

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Hybrid Town (4) | Only Human

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Even with your growing community and a town slowly becoming filled with friendly faces, someone continues to rain on your parade. From the beginning most of the citizens are fine to do business with; with slurs uttered under their breath or a lack of manners when trying to complete simple transactions but none have been as routinely problematic as the one and only vixen–Margarine. 

“Well well out on a shopping trip? All by yourself? What a rarity.”

“Please get off my car, Margarine.”

“Aww~Make me.”

You wouldn’t realize Margarine is who she is until your fourth run-in with her, called out by one of her cronies. While the faces of her group tend to change from time to time, the Fox hybrid is a constant. Her laughter is as backward-sounding as her animal ancestors, constantly ringing out when you try to quietly go about your errands in town. At first, it starts with mere leering, laughing, and marveling at your existence from a distance. Saying:

“Oh look, a big-headed hairless mole-rat—oh wait. Even those hybrids have actual strength.”

Or

“Can you believe that thing got into our town? Probably blackmailed their way in because it felt ‘excluded’.”

Or 

“Look the human got a poor animal to do manual labor for them. Watch your necks everyone they might put a collar on you next.”

They’re words you don’t mind kinda. You can learn to ignore it but Margarine like many in town begins to realize that sitting back and watching just wasn’t enough. She is the first of her cronies to start with the small things. Egging your car, slashing your tires, cutting holes in the wooden boxes filled with produce you just bought; that’s all before she outright begins prodding at you.

“What are you looking away for human? Look at me when your better species talks to you!”

“Margarine, your nails! They’re digging into my cheeks–”

“Claws, honey! That’s what’s digging into your cheeks! Get it right, ape!”

It gets to a point that Margarine lays in bed at night laughing to herself as she replays the tearful expression on your human’s face. Playing with her tail as she goes through the workday as she updates her favored column in the Town’s Weekly. Which just so happens to be about the latest gossip in town which conveniently has been talking about you for the better part of three months. Now more than ever she’s getting the recognition she deserves and it just so happens to be by doing her new favorite thing—messing with you. But as the third month concludes some new obstacles arise. 

“Isn’t this a sight? Enslaving our neighbors are we? Looks like those human instincts are finally taking hold.”

“...Margarine please.”

“Please what? ‘Please don’t defend my fellow hybrids from your ‘oh so mighty’ reign.’ I don’t think so–”

“Marge.”

“....Miss Tiffany.”

“Surprised to see you out here. Shouldn’t you be getting coffee for the Chief?”

“I was on my way until I smelt something out of place. Just doing my bit for the community.”

“...I see. Well, the next time you decide to ‘do your bit for the community’ just know if you put a hand on their head around me I’ll tear your squirrelly hide with every bloodhound–guard dog–fox-tearin’ bone in my body. We clear young lady?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

She’s such a liar. Despite the other members of your newfound 'friend group' each giving separate and likely real threats against her abuse of their human. Despite feeling as though she’d pee her pants every time their predatorial gazes landed on her, she still couldn’t shake the desire to fall into her usual routine. She got away with it for a while, poking at you while she orchestrated something to keep those worrisome guardians away, to leave her to enjoy finding some new weakness to rant about in her column. Once again everything was perfect until it wasn’t.

“You’re going to have to…tone down this bias towards the unnamed…subject.”

“What?! Why?”

“The complaints we’ve received have doubled since the column first started. And these complaints…who’s giving them can’t be ignored.”

Who’s giving them? Surely that snobby cow and those dogs weren’t big enough…then who?

“So what? Have I lost the column or what?”

“Just…lean into those counterarguments you seem to have.”

“W-w-what!?” 

There was a heavy subtext that even Margarine had decided tried to ignore. With every harrowing tale, to save the face of the alias she assumed she always left something of a counterargument towards the end of every column. A typical ploy in writing to seem unbiased. That’s all it is….and yet as Margarine pouts and ponders going over her old columns, she realizes an interesting trend. Her counterarguments sound….incredibly endearing. 

For all the obvious weaknesses they have, it’s not that bad of a survival skill if someone finds it adorable.

Or

They cry far too easily, perhaps it’s another tactic that’s supposed to make you want to comfort them.

Or 

The way they shy away as their self-proclaimed guardians defend them, some might say is another tactic to get a predator's heart pumping erratically with the need to protect. But not me, never me.

It was her. And with an annoyed swag of her tail and the blood burning in her cheeks, she writes the totally in+sincere turnaround that gets attention on her column. While she didn’t think her pride would allow her to just ignore the anger she felt at your peaceful little existence, with your clawless little hands, and your clumsy little walk. She’d allow herself to be ‘learning’  in her column which seems to revitalize her popularity. But just because her alias is going to learn doesn’t mean she has to. She has no intention of stopping her role as the town bully.

“Haha getting comfortable are we, human?”

“Margarine what are you doing here?”

“Same as you. Going to get first place at the contest tonight.”

“Awfully confident.”

“Yeah considering the competition I won’t have much to worry about.”

“There’s still 4 other contestants including me, I really don’t get—”

“I’m not going to let you get anywhere near that podium and as long as I do this, you’ll stay where you belong. At the bottom.”

“...We’ll see.”

She won’t dare write about how exciting it is to see the defiant look on your human face as your confidence grows. Or how easily you lock eyes with her in any given crowd, the challenge immediately there. It might be a fear response but in the end, it’s a bond not even those dogs or that cow or that snake could understand.

“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM Margarine?  What do you hate about me so much that you just can’t leave me alone!?”

“Let’s see where do I start? Maybe it’s your voice, your stare or maybe it’s because you’re so disgustingly weak or maybe it’s the fact that you're a grubby colonizing self-righteous human who’s walking around my town like you own the place!”

“What are you insane?!”

She admits to herself, she might’ve taken it too far this time. The competition was an annual event in town. A little romp where everyone competed in a series of challenges to win the Mayor’s Golden Carrot. The golden vegetable does come with a couple of benefits but no one actually cares for those. It’s for the social advantage. The golden trophy that makes everyone in town look at you with respect and admirable envy. A chance for you to gain the community’s respect with the help of your canine neighbors, your new roommate, and your new friend. That was the hope as Mama Tiff successfully won the baking challenge, Eudora the fashion competition, and Stein– who somehow got the award for most fearsome wonder who voted him for that. All that was next was you. A small faceless competition for floral arrangements. 

You worked hard on this….for months you ordered the flowers and grew some yourself. Placing them on your self-made wire skeleton makes the amazing shape of a bunny on its haunches. It was going to be a work of art and with the mayor judging you would have had this in the bag. That is until you return to your tent from a bathroom break to see your flowers in tatters and the one standing above them is–

“Margarine!? How could you!?”

“I always knew you were a stinky fox I just didn’t think you were rotten too!”

“....This is especially despicable even for you.”

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU AND HANG YOUR TAIL ON MY WALL!”

She doesn’t care that in no uncertain terms they all threatened her life. It’s you. Glaring and screaming at her with a ferocity she’s never seen. You’re stabbing your finger into her chest and practically growling out all the hateful thoughts you’ve never expressed. People are staring. Others are whispering. Some of the children who are old enough are filming. 

“You—”

“NO! Shut up Margarine I’ve taken a lot from you and I’m sick of it! If you hate humans just say that but DON’T EVER go out of your way to interfere with my life again. Otherwise, I may revert back to ‘my savage ways’. But if I did it will only be because you made me!”

And for once her cheeks burn in embarrassment when it’s over. Her tail curling in around her as everyone continues to oggle but it’s not at the human stomping around the fair. It’s on her. Likely chatting about what she’s done and watching still as she scampers to the uncrowded space behind the stalls. Wringing her hands onto the fluffy end of her tail.

She battles with her feelings. Burning embarrassment and something else…something that makes her heart shrivel a little smile widely. As tears fall down she holds her head high already brainstorming how to take herself out of the event for her column. By tonight the whole town will be talking. 

“Why should I care what they say…or make me feel…they’re just a human!”

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