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Goodbye Ozymandias, cat of cats. Gentlest creature ever to walk the Earth. A gray ball of fur brought home 17 years ago, named ironically after the self-important subject of Shelley’s poem, who grew into his regal stature. I have never cried so much in my life, and I’m stuck in this damnable pit without him.
I have nothing…nothing to give, and I have not a single reason left to live.
I take a boat into the open sea. I am adrift, I am debris.
I am lulled by the ocean’s rhythmic splash, when I’m beset by a tempest in a flash.
My craft is rent, my fate is clear: my body washed up here.
What I was disappears; I see my future here.
Time is clawing at my fate.
There is no fauna – no sound of life; the jungle’s darkness as oppressive as a vice.
Upon the mountainside I find some human tracks, and when I hear the drums there is no turning back.
Welcome to the island.
They writhe around the fire as if a dying snake, their flesh impaled, the mountain’s bloody thirst to slake.
The altar glistens with the latest sacrifice before a toad-like idol with a thousand eyes.
The native cries seem to feed the flame.
Their eyeless faces turn to me and call my name.
Curtains of smoke recede, reveal a blackened throne, and I…
I am home.
Iä Tsathoggua!
Miss Kitty, also resplendent.
Ozymandias, a most excellent cat, going strong at 16 years.
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
I don’t like this setup, Jet. I don’t like it at all.
Spike