[ TT ] You meet a talking cat . No one else can understand it , and it keeps warning you about your demise .

`` It'd be a shame to die in shoes that shitty, dude,'' the cat said. 
 
 My brain went through all the normal associations. Hidden camera TV show, YouTube prank, dreaming, insanity - you know. But it was n't any of those things. It was obvious what it was. It was a talking cat. It was a truth I knew to my core. 
 
 `` What's wrong with my shoes?'' I asked. 
 
 `` Jesus, this fucking guy,'' it said. `` *That's* what you took from that? Fashion criticism?'' 
 
 I replayed its sentence. `` Well,'' I said, `` I'm not planning on dying any time soon.'' 
 
 `` Walk with me,'' it said, launching forwards with typical feline grace. 
 
 Not sure what else to do, and driven by curiosity and the desire to experience something magical, I fell into step next to it. We drew no stares on the street as we headed off the main street and into a quiet residential area. `` So,'' I said. `` Talking cat, eh?'' 
 
 It approximated a laugh. `` This fucking guy,'' it repeated in a mutter. `` So listen, Steve.'' 
 
 `` My name's not Steve,'' I said. 
 
 `` I do n't give a fuck what your name is, Steve. Just listen. Get your affairs in order. Call your mom. Write a will. Buy some shoes. In that order. You'll thank me when the time comes.'' 
 
 I glared at it. `` This reminds me of the last time I took advice off a cat.'' 
 
 `` Does it?'' 
 
 `` No,'' I said. `` Of course it fucking does n't. Do you want to tell me why I should be doing it now?'' 
 
 It stopped and sat, raising its head with dignity. `` I'm doing you a solid here, Steve. Most people do n't get a warning.'' 
 
 `` Why do I deserve one?'' 
 
 It snorted and started walking again. `` Deserve? No. Well, maybe, you know, I do n't know you. Maybe you're a great philanthropist. Maybe you're working on a cure for hairballs. But from the look of you? No. This is a convenient opportunity. I *could* say something, so I did. I'm just that kind of dude.'' 
 
 `` I'm supposed to be grateful you took ten minutes out of licking your balls to tell me I'm going to die? It's true what they say. Cats really are assholes.'' 
 
 It swiped a paw at my ankles. `` Fuck you, you bipedal bitch. You want to bring that shit up do you? I *wish* I could take a break from licking my balls. But you motherfuckers thought you'd be better off if some scraggly little moustache with a dickhead attached to it cut them off. Now you're bringing it up and *I'm* the asshole? You know what? I was kidding. You're gon na live forever. See ya. Enjoy your immortality, fuckwad.'' 
 
 And it was gone. 
 
 I called my mother. I wrote a will. I looked at the shoes in the corner of the room. They had holes at the base of the toes, where they'd bent and flexed one too many times. The treads were worn and tired. Feeling something akin to guilt for the way I'd treated the cat, I grabbed my keys and headed out. 
 
 I'd tried on three pairs before the ceiling collapsed on top of me. I felt my skull splinter under a broken and jagged section of water pipe. I fractured, dying, fleeting image of a me - another me - sat at home and playing video games because had n't followed that motherfucker's advice. 
 
 Fucking cats. 
 
 
 

