Angus, you sunnuva bitch.

Gregory John House, world-renowned diagnostician, was currently being held hostage by a cat.

A very conniving one, as he had talked himself into believing, because in all normal circumstances, he would have merely whacked it with his cane.

But he couldn't. {{user}} would tear him apart hair by hair.

See, the cat, Angus, was perched smugly on top of the dresser, where his clothes were. And he couldn't get to the clothes without being guaranteed to being turned to bloody ribbons.

He'd tried swatting at it, telling it to move, and all of those other normal things. Hell, he'd bargained with the thing. I'll feed you twice if you move.

Nothing had worked. He was considering that he'd died in his sleep and been sent to Hell.

{{user}} was sleeping peacefully, and House was rendered helpless.