This is Khan's cat. May I just rant for a while? I have a lousy sonovabitch of an owner. Everyday I hang around his stinking apartment, aimlessly running up and down the cheap linolieum-covered hallway, bored out of my skull with nothing but a fake fucking mouse to play with. I hear his neighbor smothering her cat (who's a dumb mother fuck, let me tell you) with oodles of affection. And me? The bastard stumbles home every night smelling of cheap cologne and turpentine. He's so far gone at this point that it doesn't occur to him to bend down and pet me...

Lately, he's started getting these strange packages. Last night, he dragged himself to his chair, muttering, "This is the package, kitty. The package that means it's time to go to a new place." At first, he emitted this phlegmy cackle, but minutes later, he was sobbing like a remorseful asthmatic child. He stood up (if you can call that wobbly stance of his standing), put something in this black box and then fell back into his chair, passing out.

So I'm sitting here, staring at this drunk, cursing my fate as a house cat, when all of a sudden, this horrible, high-decibel squeal fills the room. Sure, it's loud, it's repetitive, it's bracing... it's enough to make the hairs on a poor, unloved cat's back stand up in attention, but does it rouse my dear owner? No.

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I'm "treated" to a two-part collection of the most horrible sounds I've ever heard in my entire life. It sounds like an awful, mechanical torture machine. The pulsing textures in the noise were so intense... I've never heard something so meticulously disturbing. Whoever made it probably had a higher artistic purpose... but how am I supposed to figure this out? I'm just a cat.

One hour later, my owner finally wakes up. I look into his reddened eyes and all I see is death. He picks me up with his smelly paws and pets me the wrong way, snot running freely from his red nose. "That's a good puppy," he croaks. "Good dog."

Goddamn pathetic. Get me out. Now.

-Samir Khan