My Dear Public,

Marvin's journal. March 13th, 2009. Unlucky Friday. Black Friday. Bikers in Port Dover today. Cold sun. Colder shade. They have a wharf down there, a jetty, what-have-you. Walked to the end, there's a seawall. A lakewall. Stood in it with heavy wind. The waves made it over the top. You're trapped beneath a crush of Lake Erie, the whole stinking, foul, polluted green mess, toppling onto your head. Liquid bricks. Frigid chunk of rain. No place for a kitten. Fish and chip place nearby, seems a safe bet. A stiff drink of milk, a scrap of breaded halibut. Wipe my tiny white beard on the leg of a customer I like. These people are cursed, they are tossed clay pots in flight, not aware that they've got to shatter sometime. Bikers. I drift through them, unheard, unseen. Ankle-height to them. Chrome everywhere, reflecting my distorted face, funhouse-crazy, eyes bulging sideways, body malleable. For a second, in the shining muffler of a Harley, I am a bonsai kitten. How many are One-Percenters? Smell of leather, body odour, beard. I make it through the scum, up the hill to the Tim Horton's. I hitch a ride with a middle aged woman with dead eyes, sunken cheeks, wispy grey hair hanging from her skull. This grim reaper takes me home. Home in time for my Science Diet meal. Home in time to escape cold, unlucky death.

Ever thine,

Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten