[ Jonah/Trace :: "I swear I pissed someone off in heaven." ]

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[ Jonah/Trace :: "I swear I pissed someone off in heaven." ]

Post by Haus on Mon Dec 31, 2012 11:11 pm



Obviously this was one of your better ideas. Cat-napping, you mean. As in, it's a completely awesome idea that deserves every form of merit and praise you can possibly think of at this very moment as you're walking down a grime-encrusted alleyway, minding your own goddamn business with a small box in your hands. You figured that on your off-day, you'd do the City a favor-- your idea of a favor. A favor that includes rounding up all the feline residents of the city without a home and transferring them to a local adoption agency in the south district. It's a win-win situation for everyone-- the kids would have company and the cats would have homes. As for food and all that, well. You decided you'd include a monthly stipend to help fund your little (silly) endeavor-- because, why not? You have cash to spare, thanks to your not-so-legal activities outside of the sanctity of normal society. It's something that the kids-- and the cats don't need to know shit about. And it's completely okay with you.

Before executing your ingeniously generous plan though, cats are required. After a good morning's worth of searching, you came to a total of sixteen meowing, feisty little beasts, all tucked away in a container no bigger than a P.O. box. You fucking loved this weird-ass gift of yours-- the ability to turn any container you're in contact with into a limitless pocket. Didn't make any fuckin' sense but some of the shit you've deal with left you asking why the sky hasn't fallen yet-- It's gotta be the next in line though, you decided. Regardless of logic, it's useful and that's all you honestly give a damn about.

As a paw comes waving out the box's opening, you poke it, grinning to yourself--

--until you see The One.

At the other side of the alleyway, just before an intersect, you recognize a huge, white-clad and tan-blotted exotic short hair cat that you've come to know only as "The One"-- as in, "the one" that keeps fucking with you. You don't know how many times you've seen this cat-- whether he's getting into your garbage, pissing in your flower bed, or generally being a total and complete nuisance. God, why. This cat-- he's fucking retribution, you swear to god-- for doing illegal business. You know it. Someone's got it made for you up there in heaven.


"Well look at you, you little shit."


The feline takes on an almost smug look, his forehead wrinkling with fur.

"You ain't even tryin' to be nonchalant, aren't you."

The cat licks his paw without a care in the world.

"Maybe s'about time someone broke you in, huh kitty?"

You take a few steps closer, and somehow, knowingly, the cat dashes off across an intersection as fast as fucking bananas. Great. Ran away to see another day to spite your petunias. You start to run after him.

"Aw, c'mon you fucking--"

--And so fate seems to conspire against you as you run right the fuck into an unsuspecting passerby. Hard. The box falls to the ground, releasing all of your fucking cats every which way and goddamnit, they're running away. There goes your hours of toil, scratches, and pain. It's like the-- that cat-- is literally your personal antagonist. As if you needed more trouble in your danger-fraught life.

Why.

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Re: [ Jonah/Trace :: "I swear I pissed someone off in heaven." ]

Post by Trace on Tue Jan 01, 2013 12:30 am

Taking a walk was a good idea, as far as Trace was concerned. However, that was sort of a given, because he thought that taking a walk was sort of always a good idea. In fact, in most situations, taking a walk was the best idea when things got down to the nitty gritty (whatever it was that that even meant). But yeah. There were just some times that you had to give up whatever it was that you were in the middle of to just take a walk, clear your head, and get yourself back in the game. Sitting down for long periods of time tended to make even the best of the best into idiots.

So it makes sense that after severak hours of code crunching, he really needed the break and the fresh air. A programmer could only take so much coding before their eyes fuzzed and their brains turned to mulch (and unfortunately, Trace was not a programmer). But the real reason that these walks were so good was because just standing and moving around (even if it's pacing in a room) helped to stimulate his mind, give him ideas, and even more importantly, give him some space to figure out just what he was doing and what he was thinking. He could already feel the thick veil being lifted from his mind, and he could almost even remember that particular line of code that was giving him trouble without his head aching as if he'd been hit by an 18-wheeler on the autobahn.

A few hours of walking were really great for him. By the time he was halfway through it, he already identified the problem. It was all in the boolean operaters, which made him shake his head in frustration. He'd only just told himself hours earlier to watch out for them in the next major block of code he was to write, but in the fugue that had settled over him, he'd probably forgotten all about the warning within minutes. And in that same state, of course he didn't have the sense to realize that something so trivial was the issue with his code, and the reason that debugging it always returned an error referencing line 42.

The last thing Trace was thinking of was cats. Cats were not something he thought about a lot, so that was a natural and logical conclusion. So it stands to reason that he almost certainly wasn't thinking of that cat -- Puff Dragon was it? -- that he'd nicknamed lovingly (?) after Puff Daddy. And so it also stands to reason that he wasn't completely shocked at hs premonitory prowess when that same cat decided to dash between his legs as if Cerberus was hot on its tail. Or the guy who chose just moments afterwards to colide with him, dropping his small box in the process.

What he was surprised at, however, was the flurry of cats that burst forth from the box, leaving him standing and gaping slightly as thousands (read: maybe a dozen and a half?) of felines shot forth from the small container and high-tailed it out of there, dashing in every direction like frost rapidly blooming on some solid surface on a cold winter day somewhere up above the Arctic Circle.

He picked himself up off the ground after the supersonic canots fled at mach speed, dusting off his shorts and looking at the other guy. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that some very interesting things would be happening here. He also had a feeling that the line of code he pored over for hours might just be completely forgotten by the time he got home later. But then, that was just a hunch he was getting.

Only his hunches were never wrong.


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