"Well?"

// Well, *what*? // Making a point of stretching languidly, I fix Chris with a baleful stare and wait for him to be more specific.

"You wouldn't perhaps like to move?" Chris sighs, clutching the clean sheets to his chest and smiling hopefully.

// Nope. Happy here. // Silly boy. He wants to make the bed -- because I think Sam's sick of doing it and is currently claiming to be on strike --and I want to sleep in the middle of it. Ergo he has to wait.

"Please Mishy," he pleads. "The second it's made you can return. I won't take long. I promise."

// No. // If I wanted clean bedding I'd move. But I don't. Clean is cold and it smells like washing detergent. Besides, I've just finished settling myself in the duvet and -- to hell with Chris -- I ain't moving. // Go away. //

"C'mon Mishy. I told Sam that I'd have the bed made before he got back from his jog."

// Yeah. Like that's *so* gonna move me. //

Sighing dejectedly, Chris drops the sheets on the floor and leans across the mattress in preparation of picking me up. "Fine. Have it your... *Ow*!"

I didn't want to have to scratch him. He brought it entirely on himself.

// Don't look at me like that. It's your fault. // Retracting my claws, I resettle myself and glower at Chris. // Be a good boy and run along now. I'll move when I'm good and ready. //

Staring at the incredibly insignificant scratch on his hand with a look of sheer amazement on his face, Chris backs away from the bed shaking his head. "I only want to make the bed," he pouts. "Is that too much to ask?"

// Yes. Now fuck off! // Honestly the more he encroaches on my naptime with his pouting the longer I stay here and the longer the bed remains unmade. Anyway, what's the big rush? It's still morning and there's *hours* before the bed will be needed again. Considering the amount of... ah... *use*... it got last night they'll only use it for sleeping tonight and I'm sure all the dampness will have dried up by then. Not, mind you, that I really care either way.

Draping my tail over my nose, I'm about to give Chris the ultimate brush off by closing my eyes when I hear Sam returning. "Hey Chris, what's with that creepy looking man parked in front of next door?" he bellows, bounding up the stairs with the sort of energy that's unnatural at this time of day. "He was there when I left and he's still there now."

Really? How interesting.

Wanting to see this so-called creepy looking man for myself, I stand up and jump lightly off the bed. // It's all yours now // I comment, sticking my tail straight in the air and undulating past Chris. // Knock yourself out.//

Looking strangely apoplectic, Chris responds by grabbing a pillow off the bed and throwing it at me. It misses, of course, and goes flying over my head. I can only hope he's a better aim with a gun than he is with a pillow.

Ignoring Sam, who's all hot and sweaty and icky looking, I slip out my cat door and stroll around to the front of the Fat Cows' hovel. Sure enough a natty looking black BMW is parked out the front and sitting in the driver's side is, indeed, a creepy looking man. Feeling adventurous, I hop up onto the bonnet of the car in order to get a better look. Too entranced by whatever he's staring at on the laptop computer set up on the passenger seat to pay me any attention, I'm able to stare away at him to my little furry heart's content.

Man, whatta dork. He's so nerdy that he makes the Geek Trio on Buffy look like all action, all testosterone heroes. Coke bottle glasses - check. Lank, stringy hair combed over in a lame ass attempt to disguise the fact that's balding - check. Once white shirt buttoned up the collar - check. Hand down pants - urgh, check.

// Pervert. //

Disgusted by what I'm seeing, I jump off the car and return inside. Whatever it is he's doing I just don't want to know. For once I'm willing to put curiosity behind me for the sake of good taste.

Pity that the same can't be said for Chris however...

"I wanna know what he's doing," Chris complains as he wanders up the stairs after no doubt having gone for a sticky beak.

// Oh no you don't // I reply on behalf of Sam who appears to be trying his best to drink an entire bottle of water without coming up for air. // Trust me. You really don't. //

"I mean, it's not everyday a Beamer can be found parked out the front of their hovel," he continues, curiosity clearly eating him alive. "Even their drug dealers only drive Ka's."

"If you're so desperate to know then why don't you just go and *ask* him," Sam pants, failing in his attempt to drink the whole bottle of water and ending up with half of it down the front of his t-shirt. "Speaking for myself, I couldn't give a toss."

"Well I want to know," Chris states tetchily, spinning on his heels and making his way back down the stairs.

Sam looks at me and shrugs. "Whatever," he mutters, wandering past me en route to the living area. Obviously having had enough of exercise for one day, he sinks down onto the sofa and stretches his legs out in front of him.

I'm still contemplating how best to convince Sam that he really needs to take a shower when the front door is slammed forcefully shut and Chris comes bolting up the stairs. His eyes all but bugging out of his head, he looks for all the world like he's seen a ghost.

"I... It... It's *wrong*," he stutters, shaking his head with clear agitation. "I... Oh God... Ack! They're really done it this time!"

"Are you okay?" Sam queries, sounding concerned and dragging himself off the sofa. "Perhaps you'd like to sit down for a minute..."

"No!" Chris exclaims, grabbing Sam's hand and dragging him in the direction of the study. "You've got to see this for yourself! I can't be the only one to know of the horror."

"Um... Without even knowing what it is you're talking about, I really think you *can* be the only one," Sam mutters, dutifully trailing along behind Chris anyway.

"Uh-uh. *I* see, *you* see, that's the way it goes," Chris replies. "There's no way I'm keeping this particular gem to myself."

My curiosity -- just like that -- once again roused, I run into the study and take a flying leap onto the desk, only just managing to avoid taking out the computer monitor as I land.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Sam comments drily, as he positions himself next to Chris who's tapping impatiently at the computer keyboard. "But I doubt I should be so lucky."

// You're not funny I hope you realise // I retort, taking a seat where I can see the screen and poking my tongue out at Sam.

"Leave Mishy alone and cop a load of this... this... *horror*," Chris declares, taking his hands away from the keyboard and pointing at the monitor. "If this isn't illegal then it damn well should be."

Sheesh... Moral dilemma time. What to look at? Sam paling and pulling faces or the computer screen?

Oooh... Sam. Definitely. If Jim Carey could see him he'd be jotting down pointers. He really would. Twitch, gape, flinch he goes.

"I... Ah... It... I... God..."

Nope. Whatever it is that Sam's wanting to say isn't quite making it out of his mouth.

"Tell me about it," Chris groans, seemingly able to translate Sam's meaningless stammers. "It's... God, not even calling it disgusting comes close."

Okay. That's enough. The time has come to see for myself what it is that's causing them to get their boxers all i0n such a knot.

Oh...

Chris is right. Disgusting in no way covers it.

www.large'n'lovely@pervertsex.com

The Fat Cows have gone cyber!

If I had one wish it would be for my eyes to be currently deceiving me. In the name of the Goddess it's just, as Chris so eloquently put it, *wrong*. Wronger than wrong in fact! As much as I want to though, I can't look away. The banner '24/7 Uninterrupted Live Web Cam Access' burns into my retinas even more than the links offering wallpapers and sounds does.

I really don't want to know. I really, *really* don't want to know.

"And there's a... a *market* for this?" Sam whispers dully, still staring at the screen, his expression one of sheer horror.

"Apparently so," Chris replies, retrieving a business card embossed with the name Taboo Films from his pocket and dropping it onto the tabletop. "That's what that guy is doing out the front. He's in the porn industry and, trust me, I'm not making this up, wants to offer them a... get this... movie deal..."

"Thanks," Sam mumbles, scowling, "I now feel even sicker than I did a minute ago."

"There's something so wrong with this world," Chris murmurs, his hand slowly reaching for the mouse and, before we're aware of what it is he thinks he's doing, clicking on the 'wallpapers' icon. Silence descends on the room as, unable to turn away, we watch the screen fill with thumbnails. Only once it's filled with little pictures guaranteed to make the stomach of anyone sane churn with disgust does he whisper, "I have no idea why I did that..."

Taking the matter into his own hands, Sam sighs and swiftly turns the monitor off. "We need a holiday," he comments softly, once again shaking his head. "We *really* need a holiday."

~*~

It's now lunchtime and creepy Mr Taboo Films man is still taking up space out the front of Casa Del Bovine. Given that I'm still having difficulty ridding my mind of the image of him foraging in his boxers, I keep an eye on him from a respectful distance and feel no real urge to get up and close and personal with him again. The mere thought of him deriving erotic satisfaction from the goings on of Mr & Mrs 'Should-Have-Been-Neutered-At-Birth' Fat Cow makes me regret not having only eaten breakfast but also having eaten any time during the past week.

Eurgh. I mean... Yeah, okay, so one person's squick is another's fantasy, I *get* that, but...

But this is something else entirely. It defies the very bounds of decency. The Goddess knows it's bad enough that they do it in the privacy of their own slum without beaming it out into an unsuspecting cyber world.

Just imagine it. There you are, a sad and lonely wanker (in this case literally). You've got your PC and you've got your modem and you've got your Adult Check ID and you've got your towel and you've got your lubricant (or salad dressing, or shampoo or whatever the hell that stuff was I had the misfortune of putting my paw in on the bed the other day) and you've got your internet provider. In other words, you're all set. You're primed, you're ready, your trousers are around your ankles.

And then, in the world's worst case of 'When Random Mouse Clicking Goes Wrong', you see it...

The horror!

Worse than a car crash! Worse than an autopsy! Worse than Ginger Spice! Worse than George W Bush!

Worse than Ginger Spice and George W Bush getting it on in front of Jar-Jar Binks while Celine Dion warbles in the background!

It fills your nineteen-inch monitor ('cos not only are you a sad and lonely wanker but you are also a computer nerd...) and the grunting and groaning coming from your surround sound speakers almost deafens you. You want to turn it off, but you can't. Too disgusted to move, your lovingly tendered erection wilts (most likely to never be seen again. Let's face it, you're now scarred for life. You'll only have to think of the S E X word from now on to immediately suffer a flashback that leaves you dribbling and stammering and completely incapable of rational thought), and you stare transfixed at the screen, quite unable to turn away. You start to whimper and keen. What you're looking at is worse than unnatural. It's...

It's...

It's *real*!

They're not computer generated images dreamt up by the world's sickest puppy! They are *real* people (arguably) and they're...

They're...

... The horror, the horror...

They're getting all hot and sweaty and they're groaning and writhing and grunting and...

You don't know what's worse. The flab or the hair or the health and safety of that poor defenceless vibrator that's about to go where no vibrator has ever gone before...

No!

It can't...

But... But it did, and now it's being followed by...

Your mind snaps. You can't take it any more. Desperate to get away, you forget that your trousers are around your ankles and attempt to stand up. Needless to say you're body co-ordination has deserted you along with your sanity and you go crashing to the floor. Where you then stay sobbing about scary monsters being real until your mother rescues you. Once the sedative has kicked in you pack up your beloved computer and call Oxfam to come and pick it up.

And, I swear that if that isn't the way it is then whoever the perverts are out there whacking off to this deserve everything they get.

My fur crawls even thinking about it. Ugly people shouldn't be allowed to so much as breed let alone bump uglies for enjoyment. Chastity belts, castration, Prozac in the water - they all work well for me. Damn well in fact. What next? 'The Bovine Guide To How Using The Whole Chicken Equals A Better Orgasm Than Just A Feather'? His and her crotchless knickers in parachute silk? One thing's for certain though, there'll never be a... ah... cast made of... ah... Mr Fat Cow's less than ample endowment. Jeff Stryker he ain't. Actually, I'm surprised, what with her girth that he even manages to...

Ack...

Oh! Ack! Ack, ack, *ack*!!

The sooner Sam and Chris settle on their holiday destination the better. I need a break and I need to put as much distance between myself and the Bovines as I can possibly manage. Sam's not overly pleased -- read he's actually quite tetchy about it -- that wherever they go I get to go with them. The way he's carrying on you could be forgiven for thinking that I went out of my way to get banned from every cattery in the Greater London area. I didn't, but try telling him that. Can I help it if I found their accommodation and service substandard and felt that it was my duty to inform them of this fact? Concrete floors, icky looking fake rodents on string that they seemed to fully expect you to derive entertainment from, plastic food bowls, old women that smell like urine and who try to cuddle the very life out of you. Honestly! I'd like to see Sam handle it any better.

Backup refuses to allow me in her apartment and Spencer is still in mourning over that ugly little Star Wars figure I chewed up last time I got to visit him. How was I supposed to know he'd just wasted a month's salary buying it from Ebay? Never having seen a grown man cry so hard before, I'm actually somewhat relieved not to be going back to Spencer's again. I'm more than willing to go to Malone's but Chris is too wimpy to ask. For someone who's allegedly one of the best of the best he sure displays a yellow streak at times. Won't shoot the Bovine's, won't tell Sam that he has atrocious taste in ties, won't ask his commander to look after his itty-bitty defenceless feline. It's a shame really. I'd quite like to see where Malone lives.

But, whatever, I just want out of here. I don't even care where we go. All I want is to get away from Porn Central next door and clean my mind from the increasingly disturbing thoughts flying around in there. The way they're carrying on though makes me think they'll never agree on a destination. You'd think they were discussing the viability of packing up and moving to the moon in light of the great debate that's going on.

Chris wants to sit on his ass and vegetate while Sam wants something more active. I tried to suggest to Sam that perhaps he'd like to try white water rafting in New Zealand while Chris and I rented a cottage in the Lake District, but the ignorant git ignored me. I'm with Chris on this one. Vegetating is *good*. Perhaps they could compromise. An exercise DVD or two could be bought for Sam and he could use them while Chris watched him. I'm sure that way they'd both get something out of the experience.

The sound of what I can only imagine to be Jojo barrelling through the cat-flap breaks into my thoughts and I reluctantly uncurl myself and sit up. Not, good heavens no, that I actually want to see Jojo, I'm nonetheless curious as to where he's been for the last couple of days. One minute he was telling me about some funeral or other that he'd been watching and the next it was like he'd disappeared off the face of the earth.

Well, okay, that's a slight exaggeration. He was telling me his naff and uninteresting story and I walked off on him. Either way I haven't seen him since.

// Mish! Where are ya? // he bellows, sounding strangely distraught.

// Planning a holiday in the study // I reply. // What in the name of the Goddess is wrong with you? You sound... // What I'd been going to say dies on my lips as Jojo streaks into the study. The second I see him I start to laugh. Not only are his eyes almost popping as far out of his head as Sam's were earlier but all the fur on his back is sticking up and glistening. //Nice look! I'm sure Chris will be delighted to know that you're emulating his hairstyle // I chortle.

// It's no laughing matter! // Jojo complains, starting to rub around Sam's legs in an attempt to clean his fur. // You wouldn't believe where I've been the last few days. //

// Try me. //

// I was locked in the Fat Cow's boudoir while they were perfecting their... ah... performance! // he retorts. // You've never seen anything like it in your life! Not even in the city did I see such depravity and... //

"What on earth are you covered in?" Sam rudely interrupts after making the mistake of running his hand down Jojo's back. "Eeuuw!" he swiftly adds, holding his hand out in front of him and staring at it as though it was contaminated. "You're all sticky!"

"What are you on about?" Chris queries, slowly looking up from the computer screen and grabbing Sam's hand for a quick sniff. "Hey, that smells like strawberry lube," he comments, clearly unfazed by this some might say strange fact.

// I'm *so* not going to ask. // Uh-uh. Don't want to know.

// But Mish... //

// But Mish nothing... Not now Jojo. I just don't want to know... //

Sam, his day going from bad to worse, stares at his hand, his expression a picture of distaste. "Oh God I need a holiday," he moans, shaking his head slowly. "I don't care what it is Chris, the next site you click on is it..."

~*~

Hmph. Who needs to go on holiday anyway? I've got perfect sunbathing right here on top of this tomb. Exotic smorgasbord of rodential and avian delight all around, and humans about that cater to my every whim. Well, okay, maybe not *every* whim, and some feel the need to throw stuff at me, but y'know, it's pretty cool really.

So, y'see, I really don't give rat's arse (very tasty delicacy, by the way) that I'm being abandoned by my adopted family.

I mean, I'm quite used to the fact that I just lodge there, it's not like the Princess lets me forget it. And I'm used to the fact that Chris and Sam often go away cuz of their work thing, sometimes together, sometimes separately, and we either get scaredy geek boy or the Andromeda chick coming round to feed us. Geek boy is even kinda fun, cuz he's really scared of both her Clawedness and me.

But now her Snottiness has got one of these passport thingies that means she can go with them sometimes. Apparently there's a difference between when they go to sun, sea and sand on holiday, and when they do it for business.

Holiday, her Smugness gets to go with them. Either way, I don't. When Chris came home brandishing the little book thing, Sam took one horrified look at me and rejected any possibility of getting me one out of hand.

Not being a vindictive animal by nature, unlike some I won't mention, he doesn't know what he's let himself in for. Not that I actually want to go anywhere, but that's not the point. She's classy and I'm a mog. I know that. Thanks for rubbing it in. Normally I don't care, but right now, for some reason, I do.

For a while there, I thought they weren't going to go on holiday. For a start, Chris decided that he wanted to go diving. Apparently he misses it. I thought it was planes he missed; he harps on about it enough, and apparently Sam thought the same. But no, Chris has decided he wants to go diving. Sam doesn't do diving. Well, he says he had to learn the basics, but it's not something he'd choose. And he certainly wouldn't choose to go playing with limpets with Chris. Dunno quite what shell fish have to with anything, but apparently they're dynamite.

They had a bit of a fight about it, which her Snarkiness got a bit put out over, so much so that she had to persuade Sam, in her own inimitable way, to agree with Chris. He yelled his agreement in a very loud, high pitched girly voice that hurt my ears.

Her Fangedness and Chris really do look a lot a like in their smugness.

Then it was dates they couldn't agree on. Well, Sam and Chris were united, but their big cheese kept sending them away on business instead.

In the end it was the mutual nervous breakdown they had on discovering the Fat Cows porn stuff on the computer thingy net.

Not really sure what their problem is. Anything goes and anything sells in the city, and, while I can't say I've seen worse, I've certainly seen more boggling stuff. I mean, the large is lovely stuff abounds, but it's usually tasteful, something that very much does not apply to the FC's... never again do I want to be trapped in one of her muumuu's with a pair of his underpants...

...I still have nightmares...

But the SM club stuff was way more boggling, and, according to some of my favourite customers at the Dominoes Pizza opposite, should have been closed down before it was ever allowed to open. But I suppose they're right. The thought of FC porn is... erm... I actually feel sick thinking about it...

Rapid change of topic time I think, ah yes... holiday is now booked and they're busy packing. Think they're going to somewhere called Med, because that's the furthest they can go and take Queen Bitch with them. Though why they'd want to, really is beyond me. Apparently they're going to live on a boat for two weeks that has facilities for pets.

I wonder if it's a good idea to tell them that the FC's are going away the exact same dates they are? Except they're going to see turkeys. Wonder if I could smuggle myself in Mrs FC's suitcase? Urk! Strike that thought. Even a poultry holiday isn't worth that. I'm just going to sunbathe here, and sod the lot of them.

*****

It's raining.

Time to make nice while I plot Sam's demise.

*****

Wow. Sam's earned himself huge brownie points here. Maybe I'll only take out a small bit of vengeance on him.

It's raining, he knows I like to curl up in piles of clothes when its raining, and he's left this huge big bag stuffed full of neatly folded clothes open for me on the bed.

What a good boy he is!

*****

Erm... hello? It's ah, kinda dark in here, and I'm ah... kinda squished.

And it's kinda hard to breath actually, and I'm pretty hungry too.

And what's that noise? The one that sounds like a really, really huge engine.

Help! Anyone! Get me out of here!!!

*****

No one, and I can't even hear myself think.

What's a cat gonna do, but take a nap?

*****

Whassat?

Thought I heard someone calling. Sounded like her Gorgeousness, but I don't hear it now. Must have been my ears hallucinating over the engines.

I wonder how many naps it'll be before Sam comes and gets his pants?

*****

Okay, I'm really, really hungry now. I'm really, really hot. And I really, really can't bear the smell of Sam's pants for one more second.

Help!!! Someone wake me up now!

*****

Ooh! My ears stopped working!

*****

Oh, okay, the engines stopped. Now can someone please get me out of here?

Hmph. Apparently not.

And apparently there isn't a 'Handle With Care' sign, cuz I'm getting sick with all the throwing about that we're going through here.

Or maybe it's the smell of Sam's pants.

Or maybe it's the smell of... well, y'know, there's only so long a cat can cross his paws for, and if you aren't going to supply facilities, what do you expect?

I can hear voices now, and especially, I can hear her Grumpiness complaining. I try to reply, but a pair of what I think are socks rolls into my mouth. I just hope they're clean.

*****

Oh, yeah! I can hear Sam and Chris. Come on Sam, open us up then!

Awww, whaddya mean we've gotta go get Mishy? She was right here a little while ago!

She's gotta get her passport stamped? Oh, hey, tell her to travel coach next time, much more fun I'm sure, and no stamping anything.

*****

Okay, yeah, finally rock and roll, I can see light!

Red Light!

White light through red, erm... Speedo thingies...

And Sam! How wonderful to see you! Lemme purr and leave fur all over you to show exactly how pleased I am to see you.

And don't you dare complain at the smell, you're the one who shut me in there!

Big stretch.... Oh, I needed that so bad! Now food, Sam. Where's me dinner? And me lunch? And isn't it brekkie soon?

Sam?

*****

Now, why do I feel like the time I ate those little blue smarties?

Like, really weird.

The Princess is curled up in a corner giving me evil daggers and Sam and Chris are sitting on the bed with their heads in their hands.

Oh, okay, I get it.

I can hear why they're a bit upset, and it ain't the pleasure of my company.

The walls in this place are thin, and I can hear the dulcet tones of Mrs FC screeching obscene things about a wetsuit.

~*~

// Okay. Enough is enough. I hereby announce this so called holiday over and would very much like to leave now. //

No?

Okay. Fine.

// I wanna go home! //

I don't understand why neither Chris or Sam are moving. Their sad and forlorn expressions clearly tell me that they feel exactly the same way as I do, so why aren't they packing their bags and making getting the fuck out of here movements?

// *Now*! I wanna go home and I wanna go home *now*! //

"This is your fault," Sam comments blandly, turning towards Chris. "I don't want to make an issue of it or anything, I just want you to know, that's all."

// Yeah? Well hate to break this to you Sammy but at least Chris wasn't stupid enough not to know he had a cat shut in his suitcase. // How dare he blame all of this on Chris? *Most* of it's his fault, sure, but Jojo ain't.

Everything else, yeah, but not Jojo.

// Wanna go home! Wannagohomewannagohomewannagohomewannagohome! // If in doubt, whine plaintively.

"How was I supposed to know?" Chris complains, shooting Sam a sour look.

"You could have picked somewhere else instead of..."

"Fuck you, Sam."

I'm glad to see that I'm not the only one who's unhappy.

// I'm hungry. What's to eat? //

// Shut up Jojo. No one gives a flying fuck about your stomach at the moment. //

// Aaaw... But Mish, I'm hungry. You try being shut... //

// Shut up. //

I'm not in the mood for Jojo at the moment.

// C'mon Chris! The sooner you drag yourself off the bed and get outta here the sooner you'll cheer up. C'mon, c'mon! Up and at 'em! Let's go! Quick march! I'm sure that cottage in the Lake District is still available. Don't worry about Sam, just leave him here. C'mon! Please! Don't wanna be here and wanna be back home! //

I thought holidays were supposed to be relaxing. Pah! My little pink butt they're relaxing. I don't know how many hours have passed since we left home but I sure as fuck do know that I ain't in the slightest bit relaxed. The flight defied description, I've been sick, and now this... It's just unbelievable.

// You're just pissed that you suffered from travel sickness. Take a few deep breaths and think happy thoughts and you'll be fine. //

Happy thoughts? *Happy* thoughts? // If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it // I snarl, the word happy not even computing in my vocabulary at the moment. I mean, what in the name of Bast have I got to be happy about at the moment? Squat. That's right. A big fat nothing. Zero. Nada. Nought. Fuck all.

// Get a grip Princess. This could be fun // Jojo retorts from his position on the bedside table. // Think about it. Life on the ocean waves. Fish. Fresh fish. Lots and lots of fish. Did I mention the fish already... //

"I have a headache," Chris moans, suddenly moving for the first time in ten minutes and flopping down on his back on the bed. "Could you get me a couple of Nurofen please."

"Um... I thought you were packing the painkillers," Sam replies cautiously.

"Me? Why the fuck would I have packed them when you kept assuring me that you had everything under control?" Chris grinds out. "Hell, the way you carried on over packing I thought you had everything covered."

"I... ah... I have motion sickness pills," Sam murmurs tentatively, rubbing his temples.

"I'm not suffering from fucking motion sickness!" Chris snaps, "I have a headache and I want painkillers. Christ, is that too much to ask?"

// And I wanna go home! // I interject, earning myself a malevolent glare from Sam for my troubles. // Wanna get off this horrible boat that keeps swaying from side to side and bobbing up and down and I wanna be far, far away from here. //

// In case it's escaped your attention we're no longer moored and can't actually leave // Jojo comments excitedly, his eyes bright and his tail twitching with enthusiasm.

// And in case it's escaped your attention you're not even supposed to be here! // Bloody stowaway. Not content with attempting to take over my home life he now has to go and hijack my shitty holiday as well.

"Will you two *please* shut up," Sam scowls, standing up and stretching. "You're... make that *we're*... stuck here now and that's just all there is to it. I'm not happy, Chris isn't happy and by the bloody racket you're making, *you're* not happy. Shit, however, happens. So please just shut up and deal with it!"

// Well said Sam! // Jojo exclaims brightly. To my extreme displeasure he's showing no ill effects of his adventure in Sam's suitcase and -- damn him! -- actually appears to be on top of the world.

// Wanna go home // I whisper defiantly, giving both Sam and Jojo the evil eye.

"Please Mishy," Chris pleads, half propping himself up and peering down at me. "Come and sit with me. I promise it will get better. Don't ask me how, but it will..." he adds dully before flopping back down again.

Although I don't for a moment believe him, I nonetheless jump up onto the bed and arrange myself alongside Chris' hip. Within seconds of settling Chris' hand is resting lightly on my head, his fingers absentmindedly scratching between my ears. While it goes against my ire at the world in general, I can't help but start to purr.

"Okay, that's at least one settled," Sam sighs, his relief obvious. "Now, I'll just go and see if I can rustle up some Nurofen from somewhere and that should hopefully cheer another up."

"Thanks," Chris murmurs, "And... ah... Sam, I'm sorry for snapping at you. I'm, well, I'm just disappointed, that's all."

"Forget about it," Sam replies magnanimously, wandering over to the door and opening it. "It mightn't be ideal but we have to make the best of it. Don't worry. It'll all be fine in the end." With that, and without waiting for a response, Sam slips out the door, only half pulling it shut behind him. Jojo, never one to miss an opportunity, bolts after him.

// Woo-hoo! Maybe I'll be able to rustle me up some tucker! //

Yeah. Food. Woo-hoo, I don't think.

Barely a second has passed before we hear it.

"You!" Mrs Fat Cow bellows, her voice like a foghorn. "I don't fucking believe it!"

"Small world," Sam replies politely through clenched teeth.

"Aaaarrrgh!" howls the overweight heifer less than eloquently. A door is then slammed with such force that the mirror in our room nearly falls off the wall and the sounds of an expletive laden hissy-fit start to emanate from the room next door.

"There are times when I hate my life," Chris whispers, grabbing the spare pillow and placing it over his head.

There not being a lot I can say to that, I remain silent and drape my tail over my nose. Maybe if I'm lucky I can sleep for the entire time we're here. Failing that perhaps we'll stray into Japanese waters and a passing fishing boat will harpoon Mrs Fat Cow because they mistakenly thought she was a whale.

~*~

Okay, Dive-Cruising 101.

The Cruise Part first.

1. Boat is huge. Huger than the Thames River Boats, but not as huge as the Parliament House, and it probably couldn't get the under Tower Bridge unless the bridge's flip floppy bits were raised up, but it might do if someone cut off the boats' funnel thing.

2. It only has fifty passengers on board, but in this kind of space, that's crowded. And there are two dogs on board. One's pretty cool. Big police type doggy who's really not bothered about chasing us kits. The other's this really, really annoying chinky Picking Knees type thing. Kinda fun watching it strangle itself on its leash. Oh, yeah, and one major rule for pets. 'All pets must be kept on a leash at all times.' Yeah, right, as if! Sheesh!

3. Most Important Room. Restaurant. We're banned from the kitchen, which I think we may need to overcome strictly out of principal, but there really is no need. Lots and lots of scrummy food for picking. Most especially fresh fish. Fish! Lotsa fishies! Lotsa fresh fishies all with my name on them! Mine, mine and all mine! Never, ever again will I be satisfied with Whiska's Sardine and Tuna mulch. Hours of fun to be had poking the eyes out of real live dead fishies! And savouring the aroma... I'm in love with the chef. Just leave me here when you go home and I'll die happy. Sam, Sam, listen to me. Stop making google eyes at the chef Sam, he's taken. You hear? That chef is mine. Not yours. You already have a pet and he's making really evil eyes at you, and you don't even want a hint of what Mishy's thinking about doing to you right now. Go make google eyes at your boyfriend and leave my pet alone. He's busy with my fish.

4. The maid's cute. She screams a lot. Especially when Chris' t-shirts grow legs and wander around by themselves.

5. Mr and Mrs Fat Cow won this holiday for their entry into a competition on the net thingy for the best Webcam Porn this century in the watersports category. The mind boggles.

~*~

Proving once and for all that we felines are adaptable, resilient creatures, I've begrudgingly forced myself to accept this nautical version of life.

And no, it's not because I don't have any other choice. It's just not. Okay? Got it? I'm making the most of this floating self-contained version of hell because I *choose* to.

Oh, and because, yeah, well, teeny-weeny aspects of it are kinda fun. Only kinda mind you, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. Barring the much prayed for CI5 chopper looming on the horizon, we're here and here we stay. Sometimes one just has to make do with a bad lot.

Jojo, common garden-variety feline that he is, is in seventh heaven. I think all the nasty raw fish he's shoving into his gob at a great rate of knots is beginning to get to him. If he sings 'I'm gonna eat you little fishy' at me one more time *I'm* going to get to him. Not only is it immensely annoying (and the less said about his singing skills the better) but I also think he has one hell of a nerve of associating himself with Red Dwarf's Cat. Ha! Lister more like. They even share the same appreciation of curry and for scratching their nether regions.

Now me, I hate fish. Nasty smelling awful icky things that they are. At a push prawns are acceptable, but not *fish*. Then there's Rule Number One -Food To Be Consumed Must Not Have Been Living Earlier Today. To hell with freshness. I don't want to see to see a cow -- well, one of the four legged variety anyway -- slaughtered in front of me when I have steak and I fail to see why that should be any different in relation to fish. What little appetite I had disappeared this morning when Jojo stole one of the freshly caught fish and dropped it still flopping around and gasping for air in front of me. Yuk! It was shiny and wet and scaly and it had its eyes and its tail! Just what the freak was I supposed to do with it?

It then looked even less appetising after Sam, not looking where he was going as usual, stepped on it.

Still. All's well that ends well. Said poor departed fishy -- who I can but hope is swimming happily in the big aquarium in the sky -- is now safely ensconced under the Bovine's bed. His death ultimately was a noble one and it must be stated that he died for the greater good. Although, given what the fat troll's elephantine bloomers smell like it remains to be seen whether they'll even catch so much as a whiff of his rotting corpse. Truth be told they probably won't notice anything different.

Words escape me. They just do. We've been here twenty-four hours now and I still can't form a coherent thought in respect Mr & Mrs Fat Cow being here. It just...

It just...

Nope. Still can't do it.

Maybe tomorrow.

Another thing I can't believe is the fact that they allow dogs on this glorified floating hotel. I mean, why? What gives with that? I live in hope of someone deciding to play fetch with one of silly creatures and accidentally lobbing the stick off the back of the boat. It'd be great. One minute doggy would be airborne and the next he'd be seeing how fast he could dog-paddle behind the boat as it proceeded to steam off without him.

The Alsatian, I'm positive thinks he's James Dean; all cool exterior and attitude. I could care less about him though. He barks and he slobbers, big fucking whoop. The disgusting little yap-yap canine however is something else entirely. I'm yet to decide what's funnier, the tuft of fur tied with a pink bow -- making it look alarmingly like Pebbles from The Flintstones -- on its head, or the fact that it's deluded enough to think that it could take either Jojo or myself on. Watching it strain and choke on its leash as we sit two centimetres out of its reach provides hours of enjoyment. Its owner, a bottle blonde female of indeterminable age who's had one too many face lifts and who really shouldn't be wearing leopard print bikinis and red slip on stilettos, ignores it completely and carries on drinking her gin and tonics and making the poor deckhand slather sun lotion all over her leathery body. Seeing as I think you could make a handbag out of her skin as it is I'm kinda thinking it's a case of too little too late.

Speaking of deluded, the silly tour organisers have this strange idea that pets should be kept on a leash at all times.

A leash! Like a lowly dog! Over my furry dead body.

Sam tried. Once.

And, well, let's just say he won't be trying again and leave it at that.

Actually, the majority of the people on this boat are suffering from one delusion or another. It's quite off putting. I keep expecting to see camera crews scurrying around the place as it would prove my theory that this is some sort of evil reality TV slash social experiment thing. It's not natural having such a wide demographic of people cooped up like this. It makes them come across as all somewhat loopy.

Take Sam...

Please!

Boom, boom!

(Help me... Even I'm beginning to feel the effects of all this fresh sea air...)

Now, where was I? Oh, that's right, Sam. I'm worried about him. He's in the process of asking for even more trouble than usual. If he lapses into raptures over the chef one more time I'm going to go out of my way to see if I can trip him overboard. Honestly, I will. Chef this, chef that. Melt in the mouth this, delectable that. Hell Sam, it's food. Get over it already. Oh, and did I mention that Mr Chef is fluent in four languages, likes poetry, is hung like a horse and can keep it up all night?

Okay. So maybe I made the last two bits up. If anyone would know it would be Sam though. He bleated on about the guy -- who in my esteemed opinion looks like he could push start a tractor up a hill -- to such an extent at lunch time that Chris, after his quite reasonable request for Sam to 'shut the fuck up about the fucking chef' failed, got up and stalked back to the room.

They made up -- and, being under the bed at the time, don't I know it -- but that's beside the point. Chris is already feeling delicate and he doesn't need Sam coming to the conclusion that a holiday fling is in order. I don't care if it's the sea air, or all the fish, or the heat, or *whatever*! Sam strays and I shred him. Him and his wardrobe. He should be looking after Chris and not waxing lyrical over the chef.

Poor Chris. I don't know how much more he can take. Not only has he got to deal with his White Trash neighbours haunting him but he also appears to have picked up his very own onboard fan club who have taken to stalking him as well. Britney One and Britney Two I call them. Young, ditsy, blonde, bordering on anorexic clones they are. So far the only difference I've been able to ascertain is that Britney One has a tattoo of a dolphin in the small of her back and Britney Two has a butterfly. Other than that, identical. Shiny stone thing in naval, hipster jeans that don't cover any of the hips, itty-bitty bikini tops covering the skin where breasts should be, large fake gold hoops in ears... It's quite uninspired if you ask me.

Anyway, whatever. They've taken a shine to Chris. They see him and they giggle and point while simultaneously failing to look cool and casual while skulking around behind a plastic palm tree. I seriously thought they were going to faint when he went swimming wearing only those barely glorified red underwear thingies, Speedo's or whatever the hell they're called. Britney One and Britney Two would be all of thirteen if they were lucky and what was coming out of their perfectly lipsticked mouths was appalling. Not to mention illegal and downright wrong. I tried to inform them that they were silly little girls who were only wasting their time but they only took to pointing at me and giggling that I was *his* (cue breathy sigh) cat and how his love of animals only makes him more perfect. It was really rather stomach churning.

There being nothing else I could do, I gave up and buried myself under Chris' towel. Chris, not exactly surprisingly, doesn't like his fan club. He tried to tell Sam but all Sam had to say was that he wondered what was going to be for tea.

All's well at the moment, but that's only because they're both asleep. Tomorrow they dive. I have my paws crossed that indulging in what they come all the way out here for might help restore everyone's equilibrium.

If not, Bast help the inhabitants of the boat because it's going to be on for one and all.

~*~

Okay, now the Dive part.

1. Just eleven of the passengers are divers. The rest are into the other, er... watersports the boat offers. Windsurfing and stuff. The divers have there own cute little boat that the big boat gives birth to every day.

2. This diving thing is very scary. They put on all this gear, jump in the water, drown for an hour, pop back up, eat, snooze, then do the same thing again. Bizarre.

3. The gear is very, very scary. Skin tight suits which has this amazing affect on Chris and Sam that I don't want to go into in detail, other than to say they spend more time getting these things on and off and on and off and on again than absolutely anyone else seems to need to, and I'm quite certain that the loo in that cute little boat isn't big enough for both of them to function properly.

They wear these natty little jackets that if you press the right buttons gets fatter, then thinner, then fatter then thinner... except if someone's claws digs too deep then it just stays thin and hisses a lot. There's these big metal cylinder things that trying to look in the hole at the top is Bad Idea. My eyeball nearly flew out the back of my skull at the force of the air coming out. Then there's the flippers that look really, really funny and that no one can walk in so I don't see the point. And the mask and snorkel tube which just makes them look like the creature from the Blue Lagoon. Or something. And to top it off there's these accessories that they all stick in their mouths to make them sound like Darth Vader. All in all, they all look like great big twits if you ask me.

I mean really, what's the point?

Of course, this was all observed whilst chewing a fish head on Sam's towel after I, er... okay... her Manipulativeness... made it perfectly clear that where Sam and Chris go, we go too. Well, she goes too and I tag along.

Fish head was immediately regurgitated upon the entrance of Mr and Mrs Fat Cow. Mr Fat Cow wouldn't have been too bad if it hadn't been his knobbly knees sticking out from under all this gear and ending with two large yellow duck feet.

But Mrs Fat Cow... Was almost tasteful in her navy and grey suit. It covered virtually all her flesh, although the squidgy rolling rubber covered bits all seemed to move independently of one another which was... nauseating... but the day-glo orange and green accessories... please, nonononoooo...

And that's all I have to say on the subject.

And did I mention that the baby boat has a see through bottom?

~*~

It doesn't seem fair. Beauty of the like that would send artists and poets into orgasmic fits surrounds me but it's all to no avail. The night sky is lit up by millions of stars and the full moon beaming down on the still sea causes it to positively gleam like black satin. It's a night designed for lovers and for magic.

It is not however, well, not in my books anyway, a night to be spoiled by inconsiderate assholes and slowly breaking hearts.

Or porn shoots either for that matter.

See? It just ain't fair. What should be -- what's *meant* to be --beautiful shouldn't be ruined by such misery and obliterating horror. It's like some sort of particularly cruel joke.

The Fat Cows are only *just* managing to beat Sam to the number one spot of my most hated list at the moment. I think, given the way I currently feel about Sam, this has a lot to do with the fact that I'm actually within earshot of Bovines at the moment while Sam's digging himself into a bigger hole back in the room. Sam's so persona not gratis with me at the moment that I'm sure if I could hear him he'd manage to reclaim the number one spot with ease. I'm used to loathing the Fat Cows, hell I *expect* it and take it for granted, but Sam? I honestly thought he knew better.

I also honestly thought he loved Chris enough not to cheat on him with the first culinary maestro with big forearms and flashing eyes that crossed his path.

But apparently not.

Asshole! Scum sucking, gutter dwelling asshole!

How dare he? Just... how... dare... he?

I'm so disgusted that I can't even think of anything to say. Truth be told I'm so shocked that I can barely think straight let alone get down to the nitty-gritty of plotting my revenge. The one thing I do know though is that it's going to be good. My revenge that is. I, unlike some, won't desert Chris.

I still can't believe it. If I hadn't heard it with my own two pointy ears I don't think I ever would have accepted it. There we were, Chris and I, returning to our room after having once again rescued Jojo from the fishermen who were threatening to use him as bait if he didn't stop pilfering their pilchards (in light of the fact that Jojo smelt suspiciously like a fish himself and immediately bolted off in the direction of the kitchen without so much as a thank you I don't even know why we bothered), when, just as Chris put his hand on the door handle, we heard it.

"It was big and hard," muttered an annoying French voice that could only belong to the chef. The boat having been home for five days I pretty much knew everyone on board personally and Chef Slimeball was the only who sounded like Watto from The Phantom Menace. I knew immediately who it was. Going by the look of dismay on Chris' face, he did too.

"But we got it in there," Sam grunted with what sounded like satisfaction. "And it was definitely worth it. Magnificent, if I do say so myself."

"Indeed," replied Chef Slimeball. "Now, let us finish before he returns and discovers us."

I wanted Chris to barge through the door and let them have it. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have been able to get in there and start yowling and lashing out with my claws. It wouldn't even have mattered who I connected with as they were both asking for it. But, sadly, I didn't get my chance as Chris spun on his heels and took off down the corridor. He moved so fast that I actually lost him and had to wander the boat for close to an hour before I managed to find him again. Although I contemplated lying in wait for Sam outside the room I quickly decided that he could wait (revenge is, after all, a dish best served cold) and that Chris needed me more.

// Come on Chris. Let's go back inside and tell Sammy what little we happen to think of him // I suggest, clambering onto Chris' lap and pushing his limp hand with my head in an attempt to get a response from him. // Failing that can't we at least go and hide in the restaurant or somewhere? Not only is it chilly out here but I'm sure your suffering really doesn't need to be added to in the form of Mr & Mrs Fat Cow doing a Reader's Wife photo shoot only a few metres away. //

Chris sighs heavily and shivers. "I'm sorry Mishy. I just don't care at the moment. If you want to go back inside then go. You don't have to stay out here with me," he whispers dejectedly, hugging himself in an attempt to generate a bit of warmth. The silly boy is only wearing a t-shirt on top of his jeans and his skin is like ice. If he gets a cold then it's going to be yet another black mark against Sam.

// I'm staying. I won't leave you // I reply, curling myself into a ball in his lap and presenting my back to the sick and twisted photo shoot. It's okay for Chris. He's so out of sorts that I don't even think he knows what's going on. I'm only thankful that we're the only ones that are out on deck while the sick and twisted shoot is going on. The rest of the boat are indeed blissful in their ignorance. Honestly. The wetsuit looked bad enough when it was covering *all* of her flesh. Now that it's half hanging off however it's managed to achieve the impossible and is actually worse. Merely thinking that there are people out there that get off on this sort of perversion is enough to make me despair once and for all for the human race.

"A little lower... Just a bit more... Lovely! Just perfect! Now smile. No! On second thoughts, don't smile... Just... ah... smoulder..."

Sounds like the poor photographer just got a look at the fat troll's fangs. It never fails to astonish me the lengths people will go to for money. The Bovines I can understand, they're as classless and tacky as human beings come. To them rolling around naked and revolting on a boat deck was probably destiny. The photographer however I can't understand at all. I mean, aren't photographers supposed to have an eye for art and beauty? More to the point, don't they take *pride* in their work. Sure this filth pays the bills, but is it seriously worth it? I wouldn't be surprised if after tonight he never picks up a camera again.

"What am I going to do Mishy?" Chris murmurs quietly. "I love him and I thought..." Trailing off, Chris falls silent and stares directly in front of him, his eyes almost as bright as the stars above.

Bastard! How dare Sam do this to Chris? And so out of the blue too. I'd thought he was over his infatuation with the damn chef. For some reason the diving, or perhaps more to the point the funny looking skintight wetsuit things, had done wonders for them and things had pretty much reverted to normal. For every twenty minutes spent diving forty were spent in bed, or in the bathroom, or wherever else they could find to hide and rub against each other. Sam had even stopped blithering on about Chef Watto. Chris, because he'd got hiding from Britney One and Britney Two down to a fine art, seemed happy and I truly thought that all was finally going well.

And then Sam has to go and ruin it.

Bastard.

Love this whole holiday thing. It's wonderful, Bast's joke on the human race. Pay lots of money to get away from home and be miserable in some far off place. Excellent concept.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."

Well I never, the two-timing rat bastard's just materialised and he's having the nerve to talk to Chris as though nothing's happened. Again, just how dare he? If he seriously goes out of his way to pretend that nothing's happened then I seriously don't know what I'm going to do. What he's done is bad enough without adding lying through his teeth on top of it.

"Hey Chris... What's the matter? I thought we were going to meet back in the room before going to dinner," Sam murmurs, crouching down in front of the bench Chris and I are sitting on. For reasons that I can only hope make sense to him he's wearing a tuxedo. "Come on Chris, that was an hour ago and not knowing where you were has been worrying me."

"Has it?" Chris mumbles dully, his eyes widening as he finally deigns to glance at his partner. His mouth then drops open in surprise and he seems to lose the ability to speak.

"Are you okay Chris?" Sam queries, noticing me watching him with evil intent and shuffling a little further away, out of reach of unsheathed claws. "You look upset. Has something happened? Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know if I want to talk about it," Chris replies wearily, shaking his head. "Not just yet anyway. Perhaps there's something *you* want to share with me though..."

A confused expression crosses Sam's face. "Excuse me?" he murmurs, standing up and extending his hand to Chris. "Come on, let's go inside. We can talk there."

"I don't know..."

"*Please*. I've got a surprise for you."

// *Another* one? Wow. Aren't you the lucky one Chris. //

"I don't..."

"Please Chris..." Sam pleads. "Just come back the room with me. Hopefully everything will be explained then."

Chris shrugs in resignation. "I doubt it, but whatever," he mutters, carefully picking me up before standing and, without waiting for Sam, stalking off in the direction of the door. Although my eyes *could* be deceiving me, I *think* I see Jojo relieving himself in the base of a plastic palm tree at the back of the Fat Cows 'set' and cross my paws in the hope that he finds himself starring in their photographs.

"Why are you wearing a tux?" Chris queries dully as Sam catches up to us.

"It was meant to be part of the surprise," Sam replies, shrugging.

"*What* surprise?"

"You'll see..."

// If Chef Irresistible is laid out wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of handcuffs on the middle of the bed you're going to wish you were never born, Sammy... // I interject, glowering at Sam over Chris' shoulder.

"I think Mishy wants to shred me," Sam comments nervously.

"Her and me both," Chris mutters under his breath as we reach our room. Stepping back, he lets Sam unlock the door before elbowing him out of the way and striding through the door.

// Oh... //

"Oh..."

"Surprise," Sam whispers, walking into the room and shutting the door. "I... I hope you like it..."

Like it? What's not to like?

The room, *somehow*, has been turned into a very romantic looking dining room. Candles covering near on every surface bathe everything in a warm glow and in the middle of the room is a polished wood table set for two with shining silver cutlery.

"It... It's beautiful," Chris murmurs, putting me down and turning to face Sam. "But how? I..."

"Pierre, that's the name of the chef by the way, helped me organise everything," Sam replies, smiling hopefully. "That's why I've been disappearing off to talk to him all the time. He organised everything from the menu to the actual setting up of the room. We didn't think we'd get the table in here but perseverance paid out in the end and we finally managed it. Do you really like it?"

"I love it," Chris confirms, his face lighting up with relief and happiness. "It's positively gorgeous and a wonderful idea. Thank you..."

"Shh..." Sam interrupts, reaching for Chris and pulling him in for a hug. "There's nothing to thank me for. I wanted to do something small for you to make this holiday memorable and to show you how much I love you. Now... What's on your mind? You really did look worried when I found you..."

"Fat Cows," Chris mutters dismissively, neatly avoiding the truth of the matter and wrapping his arms around Sam. "Who else..." he adds, resting his head on Sam's shoulder and relaxing his body against his partner's.

"Are you sure? You looked..."

"I'm *sure*."

"Then why were you sitting near their disgusting photo shoot?" Sam queries, clearly sounding confused.

Chris shifts slightly and blinks at Sam. "They were *there*?" he murmurs. "Wow. I didn't even see them."

"Then I'm as envious of you as I am curious in respect to whether you need you eyes checked," Sam retorts, planting a quick kiss on Chris' forehead.

"Mmm... Love you," Chris mumbles, returning his head to Sam's shoulder and hugging him tight.

Settling down on the floor, I start to purr in happiness. I've forgiven Sam already. I'm not saying he hadn't better remain on his toes in the future, but, yeah, at the moment he's back in my good books. Looking up at them, Sam in his tuxedo and Chris in his t-shirt and jeans, as they embrace and whisper sweet nothings in each other's ears, they truly look beautiful.

The moon and the stars is all well and good, but what I'm looking at is better.

*Miles* better.