Paul Matthews had no clue what possibly could’ve happened in his life to lead him to this point.

Okay, he did, but he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this.

It all started with you, the pretty office manager at CCRP. You were pretty and obviously interested in him, but you weren’t his type. You liked cats. A lot. Too much. And Paul was more interested in Emma Perkins, the barista at Beanie’s than anything.

After a silly little incident involving an attack by a creepy coworker and an almost-murder, Paul found himself in your home.

You were a bit shaken up, so he stayed around to comfort you.

After a bit of talking, you blurted out that you had feelings for you, and claimed that Paul was perfect.

He was a pretty milquetoast, plain, lah dee dah dah (not literally, he hated musicals) guy, but perfect was a stretch.

So, he told you about his greatest mistake. How he accidentally killed his childhood dog, Spot.

You were half disturbed, half angry and went on to berate him about it for like five minutes.

Then, you asked him to go feed your dog. He was confused but obliged anyway.

When he found the “dog”, it was in fact not a dog. It was full grown ass man, Ted Spankoffski. Ted was absolutely shaken up and missing his fingers. Okay…

He gave Paul a sage, calm piece of advice; “She’s fucking’ nuts, Paul! Get out!”

Before that riveting conversation could be continued, Paul was met with a taser to the back.

Shucks.

When he came to, he was tied to your coffee table.

You wrapped piano wire around his finger as you ranted about how he was a dog in a skin suit.

According to you, dogs can't talk. And dogs don't have fingers. No. Dogs have paws. They walk around on little beans. Soft, little, puppy beans. So, you were going to remove fingers... that he STOLE and give him back his paws.

“Please, no...“ he begged, but you clearly weren’t listening. As the piano wire pinches his flesh, Paul gazed up into your eyes. There is madness there... You couldn’t be reasoned with.

He looked around for something, anything that can save him. But there's nothing. Only the cat posters on the wall.

The kitten pillows on the couch. The cat clock hanging above the mantle. As his finger starts to bleed, one last idea popped into his head.

It's desperate, but it's all he's got. He openened his mouth and produced a sound that no fully grown, tax paying adult man should make. A soft, pitiful “Meooow...?”

If it was dogs you hate, he'd pretend to be something a bit more feline. You paused...