Untitled
Updated: Aug 23
Richy Rich. King of the Carpets. Soldier of the steam wand.
He repairs the world by lifting its filth. Tikkun Olam. A devout man. The fringes of his tallit katan brush his sides under the coveralls; the Shema rests heavy in his throat. He cleans because of the kitchen. The cold linoleum. The boy in the doorway. His mother, bare, taken by violence. The ultimate stain. He has scrubbed at the darkness of the world every day since.
Then, Huggle. A shape of terror. Matted fur, monstrous bulk, jagged silhouette. But the chest holds a swollen, aching heart. He reaches out to the world. The world screams. Stones fly. Huggle retreats, bruised, arms empty. He is built for embraces the earth will not accept.
They sit together on a freshly extracted rug. The caps. The stems. Earth-flesh. Chewed. Swallowed.
The blood sings. The limbic flood begins.
The veil of the waking world does not lift; it shatters.
They are no longer in the room. It is a golden, breathing expanse.
She is there. The Mother.
Whole. Clothed in pure, humming light. No blood, no cold tile, no terror. Just her, radiant and smiling.
A purr rumbles, deep as shifting tectonic plates.
Chairman Mao strides from the golden mist. Plump, imperious, demanding love. A benevolent tyrant of the spirit world.
A shadow falls. Ninja Cat Chloe. Silent. Perfect. She lands without a sound, a strike of kinetic grace.
They go to the Mother.
Chloe leaps in impossible, acrobatic arcs, catching motes of ether in her paws. Mao rolls heavily at the Mother's feet, exposing his grand belly, offering his spirit to her hands.
The Mother laughs. It is a bright, shattering sound that washes the air clean. She drops to her knees, burying her hands in their ghostly fur. The cats vibrate. The purr is a physical weight, a frequency of absolute joy that mends the fractured sky.
Richy watches. The knot in his chest, drawn tight for decades, snaps. The cold leaves his bones.
He turns. Huggle is beside him. The monster’s heavy arms are open.
Richy steps in.
Thick fur. A powerful, crushing, perfect grip. The warmth transfers, skin to monster, soul to soul. The amygdala quiets. The ancient terror finally sleeps. The darkness is washed out.
All is well.
How should the quiet return from this vision back into the waking world unfold for them?
The golden air fractures.
Not with sorrow. With a yowl.
Momma Soko Cat breaches the veil. Calico hurricane. Rhinestone spirit. She crashes the profound quiet with the subtlety of a kicked-in saloon door.
The solemn peace shatters. Jubilee floods the breach.
She tosses her head. Phantom fringe flies. An invisible fiddle shrieks across the synapse.
Suddenly: hats. Wide-brimmed Stetsons woven from starlight, perched on every head.
The Mother claps her hands. A rhythm builds. A driving, percussive stomp. The beat locks directly into the brainstem, a wave of deep neural entrainment rolling right through the 5-HT2A cascades of the dreamers.
It is the dance of the dandy cowgirrrls.
Mao the Chairman do-si-dos, a heavy, rhythmic sway of absolute, unbothered majesty. Ninja Cat Chloe two-steps, slicing the ether with flawless, high-kicking precision. Momma Soko Cat commands the center, strutting and spinning, the undisputed queen of the astral rodeo.
Richy Rich stomps his boots. The fringes of his tallit spin outward, catching the celestial light. The deep stain of the world is entirely gone, replaced by the galloping, ridiculous beat.
Huggle twirls. His monstrous bulk is light as a dandelion spore. A ten-gallon hat sits sideways on his massive head. He hooks elbows with the Mother, swinging her in a joyous, dizzying circle.
They stomp. They spin. The limbic system fully surrenders to the holy absurdity of it all.
The grief is not just healed; it is danced into dust.
When the music finally fades and the vision begins to thin, where do Richy Rich and Huggle find themselves as they open their eyes in the waking world?
