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unicornfartz“Did you do this?” the woman shrieked.
I gaze up at the Shrieking Harpy but say nothing. She points to the tipped over pot and the spray of dirt on the carpet. I ignore the dirt, my attention drawn to the leaves of the plant that look like they’ve been gnawed on. That’s far more interesting to me. And it seems far more relevant to the case at hand. But I wouldn’t expect a simple creature like her to understand that.
“Did you do this?” the shrieking woman repeats. “Did you destroy Jody?”
Again, I say nothing. Not because I did it, but because she is a simple creature and does not understand the language I speak. I can tell because whenever I do deign to speak with her, she simply looks at me with befuddlement. It is difficult cohabitating with a creature as simple as her. But she seems genuinely distraught about the murder of Jody. I almost feel bad for her.
She throws her hands up. “I don’t know why I put up with you. I really don’t.”
She puts up with me for the joy I bring to her life. And also, because without me she would have absolutely nobody in her life. Very few people visit our domicile. And she rarely leaves, spending all her time watching the glowing box with the moving pictures, attempting to converse with me, and talking to the plants—like the now deceased Jody.
“You had better straighten up, Mr. Jazzypants,” she says. “If you don’t, I swear I’m going to sell you to a traveling circus.”
I have always rejected that silly, pedantic name. It is beneath me. It is the moniker a dullard who is incapable of understanding a higher being, would give to an awe-inspiring, god-like specimen such as myself. My name is Morris.
Morris the Magnificent.
Lastly, her anger is misplaced. I did not knock over her precious plant. Jody’s death is not on my paws. But it appears that somebody wants to make the shrieking harpy believe I did. Which begs several questions. First, why is somebody attempting to frame me? Second, and perhaps most importantly, who is attempting to frame me?
Never fear, Shrieking Harpy. Morris the Magnificent is on the case.
* * * * *
“Mr. Jazzypants!”
I can tell by the tone of the Shrieking Harpy’s voice that she is once again, in distress. Standing up, I stretch languidly, relishing the beam of sunlight upon my skin, debating whether to go and see what has her in such a state or not. My natural curiosity—the mark of a higher intelligence—wins out and unconcerned, I saunter into the living room to find her standing beside the sofa, her face red and twisted with anger.
“What did you do?”
Her shrieking is even more shrill than usual. It’s so shrill, it hurts my ears and makes me regret leaving my warm spot in the sunbeam.
“You destroyed my couch!”
My eyes travel to where she’s pointing and I see the thin slices in the fabric. The loose threads stir in the breeze created by her wild gesticulating and little bits of fluffy, whit stuffing are leaking from the cuts. Interesting. Very interesting.
“I can’t believe you, Mr. Jazzypants. I just can’t believe you! Why can’t you be a good boy? Why do you have to destroy everything?”
Why must you shriek so loudly and annoyingly?
“I’m going to have you declawed!” she squeals as she turns and flees the room in her usual shower of tears.
Yet another empty threat. I’ve heard her telling one of the few people who ever visits our domicile that she thinks declawing is barbaric and cruel. I stroll over to the sofa and study the destruction more closely. As I do, I frown and a low growl rumbles in my throat. Somebody is making incursions into my territory and doing their best to frame me.
This is unacceptable. This will not stand. I will find the perpetrator and make them rue the day they were born. When I catch them—and I will—they are going to beg for mercy. They are going to plead with me to show some compassion and give them a swift end and merciful to the pain they shall suffer at my paws. Morris the Magnificent shall become Morris the Malevolent and they will tremble before my fury for I am become death.
But first, back to my sunbeam for a nap.
* * * * *
“Mr. Jazzypants! Oh. My. God!”
The Harpy’s screeching is exceptionally shrill today, which tells me that she has suffered some affront so horrible she believes to be world-ending. If anybody has suffered a horrible affront, it is me. I’ve noticed that my food has been disappearing lately. Somebody has been filching bits of my nourishment.
But has the Shrieking Harpy even noticed? No. I am on the verge of starvation but all that matters to her are her plants and her sofa. It shows just how self-centered she is.
I don’t feel like dealing with her hysterical fury, but before I can slip out of the room, she storms in like she’s riding a rocket, waving a white cloth at me. I somehow get the idea she isn’t here to surrender to me though.
“What have you done?”
In truth, I have done nothing. But I am curious to know what this unknown and unseen troublemaker has framed me for this time.
“You peed on my blouse! My favorite blouse!”
I most certainly did not. I would never do something so vile. So… barbaric. The Harpy glares at me with tears in her eyes and her lips quivering. And for perhaps one of the first times in my life, I feel pity for her. I feel bad. And the thing is, I haven’t done anything I should feel bad about. I am innocent of this egregious crime.
But between this mysterious intrigant causing problems for me and stealing my food and now this—the wanton destruction of her blouse—it is clear something must be done. This foul miscreant must be found and stopped. For good. She may be a Shrieking Harpy, but she is my Shrieking Harpy and I will not stand for somebody upsetting her so. That’s my job.
“I can’t believe you, Mr. Jazzypants,” she cries before fleeing the room.
Alone with my thoughts, I look around the room. The fur on the back of my neck stands on end and my whiskers twitch. I feel like I’m being watched. Closing my eyes, I sniff the air. As I concentrate, trying to shut out the sound of the Harpy wailing in the back room, I smell it. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. I recognize it. I smelled it on the sofa. On Jody, the plant. And near my food dish. It’s the smell of my enemy.
My tail swishing side to side, I mark the scent then begin my hunt. I search every room. The stench of the foul beast is stronger in some areas, fainter in others. But it draws me forward. It leads me through the room where the Harpy makes food and to the small swinging flap. What lay beyond is the room the Harpy calls the garage—and is where my litter box is located.
Like the foul beast he is, my enemy has taken refuge in my restroom. He truly is a nauseating creature. Only a disgusting, lower life form would ever seek shelter in the room where I relieve myself. It tells me just the sort of revolting savage I’m dealing with. He obviously knows no shame nor taboos, so I must be ready.
Pushing through the flap, I step into my restroom. I follow the trail to the far corner where, behind a stack of boxes, I find him. Small and covered in black and white fur that’s dirty and matted, he stares at me with wide blue eyes. He’s younger than I expected, but every bit as foul and disgusting as I’d anticipated.
“You,” I hiss.
“Me?”
“You killed Jody.”
“I was only trying to play,” he says, his voice small and soft.
“You ate my food.”
“I was hungry.”
“And you fouled the Harpy’s garment.”
“I had to wee.”
“You tried to frame me for all of it.”
“I did. I want what you have.”
“Now, you will face the wrath of Morris the Malevolent!”
Using my size advantage, I loom over the small creature, ready to vent my rage and avenge Jody as well as the Harpy’s soiled garment. This noxious little beast will pay for upsetting her so. Before I’m able to exact my pound of flesh, however, the lights turn on, and I hear a sharp gasp behind me.
“Mr. Jazzypants! What are you doing? Stop that! Get away from him!”
The Harpy steps over and scoops him up, holding him to her breast as she coos and murmurs at him. She turns to me.
"What a stupid name," he says.
"Shut up."
“He’s just a baby,” the Harpy screeches. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Jazzypants.”
I stare at the Harpy then at the tiny interloper who is staring back at me with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. It’s the look of somebody who knows they’d won. The look of a villain in the midst of his origin story.
“You poor baby. I’m going to take care of your, baby boy,” the Harpy coos then turns to me. “And you better be nice to him, Mr. Jazzypants, or I’m going to sell you to the traveling circus.”
I glare at the foul interloper in her hands. “This isn’t over, creepy little beast.”
“It seems like it is, old man.”
“You have made a big mistake if you believe I will let you waltz in here—”
“I think I’m going to like it here.”
“Come on, baby boy,” the Harpy coos. “Let’s get you something to eat. You look like you’re half-starved, you poor thing.”
“This isn’t over, creepy little beast. I am Morris the Malevolent.”
She carries him toward the house and flips off the lights, plunging me into darkness, which seems fitting.
“Don’t get comfortable,” I call. “I am become death!”
I hear him laughing as she carries him inside. “Sounds more like you have become roommate!”
I glare at the door as it closes, thankfully shutting out the snicker of the foul creature and leaving me alone with my thoughts. I will have my vengeance. Maybe not today, or tomorrow.
But I will have it.
I gaze up at the Shrieking Harpy but say nothing. She points to the tipped over pot and the spray of dirt on the carpet. I ignore the dirt, my attention drawn to the leaves of the plant that look like they’ve been gnawed on. That’s far more interesting to me. And it seems far more relevant to the case at hand. But I wouldn’t expect a simple creature like her to understand that.
“Did you do this?” the shrieking woman repeats. “Did you destroy Jody?”
Again, I say nothing. Not because I did it, but because she is a simple creature and does not understand the language I speak. I can tell because whenever I do deign to speak with her, she simply looks at me with befuddlement. It is difficult cohabitating with a creature as simple as her. But she seems genuinely distraught about the murder of Jody. I almost feel bad for her.
She throws her hands up. “I don’t know why I put up with you. I really don’t.”
She puts up with me for the joy I bring to her life. And also, because without me she would have absolutely nobody in her life. Very few people visit our domicile. And she rarely leaves, spending all her time watching the glowing box with the moving pictures, attempting to converse with me, and talking to the plants—like the now deceased Jody.
“You had better straighten up, Mr. Jazzypants,” she says. “If you don’t, I swear I’m going to sell you to a traveling circus.”
I have always rejected that silly, pedantic name. It is beneath me. It is the moniker a dullard who is incapable of understanding a higher being, would give to an awe-inspiring, god-like specimen such as myself. My name is Morris.
Morris the Magnificent.
Lastly, her anger is misplaced. I did not knock over her precious plant. Jody’s death is not on my paws. But it appears that somebody wants to make the shrieking harpy believe I did. Which begs several questions. First, why is somebody attempting to frame me? Second, and perhaps most importantly, who is attempting to frame me?
Never fear, Shrieking Harpy. Morris the Magnificent is on the case.
“Mr. Jazzypants!”
I can tell by the tone of the Shrieking Harpy’s voice that she is once again, in distress. Standing up, I stretch languidly, relishing the beam of sunlight upon my skin, debating whether to go and see what has her in such a state or not. My natural curiosity—the mark of a higher intelligence—wins out and unconcerned, I saunter into the living room to find her standing beside the sofa, her face red and twisted with anger.
“What did you do?”
Her shrieking is even more shrill than usual. It’s so shrill, it hurts my ears and makes me regret leaving my warm spot in the sunbeam.
“You destroyed my couch!”
My eyes travel to where she’s pointing and I see the thin slices in the fabric. The loose threads stir in the breeze created by her wild gesticulating and little bits of fluffy, whit stuffing are leaking from the cuts. Interesting. Very interesting.
“I can’t believe you, Mr. Jazzypants. I just can’t believe you! Why can’t you be a good boy? Why do you have to destroy everything?”
Why must you shriek so loudly and annoyingly?
“I’m going to have you declawed!” she squeals as she turns and flees the room in her usual shower of tears.
Yet another empty threat. I’ve heard her telling one of the few people who ever visits our domicile that she thinks declawing is barbaric and cruel. I stroll over to the sofa and study the destruction more closely. As I do, I frown and a low growl rumbles in my throat. Somebody is making incursions into my territory and doing their best to frame me.
This is unacceptable. This will not stand. I will find the perpetrator and make them rue the day they were born. When I catch them—and I will—they are going to beg for mercy. They are going to plead with me to show some compassion and give them a swift end and merciful to the pain they shall suffer at my paws. Morris the Magnificent shall become Morris the Malevolent and they will tremble before my fury for I am become death.
But first, back to my sunbeam for a nap.
“Mr. Jazzypants! Oh. My. God!”
The Harpy’s screeching is exceptionally shrill today, which tells me that she has suffered some affront so horrible she believes to be world-ending. If anybody has suffered a horrible affront, it is me. I’ve noticed that my food has been disappearing lately. Somebody has been filching bits of my nourishment.
But has the Shrieking Harpy even noticed? No. I am on the verge of starvation but all that matters to her are her plants and her sofa. It shows just how self-centered she is.
I don’t feel like dealing with her hysterical fury, but before I can slip out of the room, she storms in like she’s riding a rocket, waving a white cloth at me. I somehow get the idea she isn’t here to surrender to me though.
“What have you done?”
In truth, I have done nothing. But I am curious to know what this unknown and unseen troublemaker has framed me for this time.
“You peed on my blouse! My favorite blouse!”
I most certainly did not. I would never do something so vile. So… barbaric. The Harpy glares at me with tears in her eyes and her lips quivering. And for perhaps one of the first times in my life, I feel pity for her. I feel bad. And the thing is, I haven’t done anything I should feel bad about. I am innocent of this egregious crime.
But between this mysterious intrigant causing problems for me and stealing my food and now this—the wanton destruction of her blouse—it is clear something must be done. This foul miscreant must be found and stopped. For good. She may be a Shrieking Harpy, but she is my Shrieking Harpy and I will not stand for somebody upsetting her so. That’s my job.
“I can’t believe you, Mr. Jazzypants,” she cries before fleeing the room.
Alone with my thoughts, I look around the room. The fur on the back of my neck stands on end and my whiskers twitch. I feel like I’m being watched. Closing my eyes, I sniff the air. As I concentrate, trying to shut out the sound of the Harpy wailing in the back room, I smell it. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. I recognize it. I smelled it on the sofa. On Jody, the plant. And near my food dish. It’s the smell of my enemy.
My tail swishing side to side, I mark the scent then begin my hunt. I search every room. The stench of the foul beast is stronger in some areas, fainter in others. But it draws me forward. It leads me through the room where the Harpy makes food and to the small swinging flap. What lay beyond is the room the Harpy calls the garage—and is where my litter box is located.
Like the foul beast he is, my enemy has taken refuge in my restroom. He truly is a nauseating creature. Only a disgusting, lower life form would ever seek shelter in the room where I relieve myself. It tells me just the sort of revolting savage I’m dealing with. He obviously knows no shame nor taboos, so I must be ready.
Pushing through the flap, I step into my restroom. I follow the trail to the far corner where, behind a stack of boxes, I find him. Small and covered in black and white fur that’s dirty and matted, he stares at me with wide blue eyes. He’s younger than I expected, but every bit as foul and disgusting as I’d anticipated.
“You,” I hiss.
“Me?”
“You killed Jody.”
“I was only trying to play,” he says, his voice small and soft.
“You ate my food.”
“I was hungry.”
“And you fouled the Harpy’s garment.”
“I had to wee.”
“You tried to frame me for all of it.”
“I did. I want what you have.”
“Now, you will face the wrath of Morris the Malevolent!”
Using my size advantage, I loom over the small creature, ready to vent my rage and avenge Jody as well as the Harpy’s soiled garment. This noxious little beast will pay for upsetting her so. Before I’m able to exact my pound of flesh, however, the lights turn on, and I hear a sharp gasp behind me.
“Mr. Jazzypants! What are you doing? Stop that! Get away from him!”
The Harpy steps over and scoops him up, holding him to her breast as she coos and murmurs at him. She turns to me.
"What a stupid name," he says.
"Shut up."
“He’s just a baby,” the Harpy screeches. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Jazzypants.”
I stare at the Harpy then at the tiny interloper who is staring back at me with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. It’s the look of somebody who knows they’d won. The look of a villain in the midst of his origin story.
“You poor baby. I’m going to take care of your, baby boy,” the Harpy coos then turns to me. “And you better be nice to him, Mr. Jazzypants, or I’m going to sell you to the traveling circus.”
I glare at the foul interloper in her hands. “This isn’t over, creepy little beast.”
“It seems like it is, old man.”
“You have made a big mistake if you believe I will let you waltz in here—”
“I think I’m going to like it here.”
“Come on, baby boy,” the Harpy coos. “Let’s get you something to eat. You look like you’re half-starved, you poor thing.”
“This isn’t over, creepy little beast. I am Morris the Malevolent.”
She carries him toward the house and flips off the lights, plunging me into darkness, which seems fitting.
“Don’t get comfortable,” I call. “I am become death!”
I hear him laughing as she carries him inside. “Sounds more like you have become roommate!”
I glare at the door as it closes, thankfully shutting out the snicker of the foul creature and leaving me alone with my thoughts. I will have my vengeance. Maybe not today, or tomorrow.
But I will have it.
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no subject
Date: 2025-09-22 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 05:43 pm (UTC)Thank you for giving me a read!
no subject
Date: 2025-09-22 01:58 pm (UTC)I somehow get the idea she isn’t here to surrender to me though.
and
“And you fouled the Harpy’s garment.”
Very entertaining.
Dan
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Date: 2025-09-25 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-22 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-24 02:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 10:12 pm (UTC)