There was never a dark corner to be found on the boat, never a quiet space or a lonely hole. Papercut had crept through every crevice and crack he could find. He had forced his bony frame through holes that would prove challenging for even the most gelatinous of rats. And always, always, he found another cat there, another of the 114 already making use of the dark spot. He was going mad, sea crazy; he needed to get off so badly. It had been seven weeks. Seven weeks at sea and not one chance to rub up against himself, to masturbate with a fury to match the waves that pounded the ship. Pound, pound, pound, beat, beat, beat – big, foamy, white splashes of salt. All around him nature was masturbating and here he was, with balls so swollen his genitals looked like they had an underbite, desperately seeking a dark corner.
The old creaking boat wasn’t made for this many cats, actually judging by the height of the door handles and light switches, it wasn’t made for cats at all. He scanned the deck, casting his Egyptian eyes over the eighty or so fur-lined bodies writhing and jiggling to Spare Parts. Their upright posture was supposed to make them seem superior, evolved. They weren’t savages like their land lubbing counterparts. No, these nautical masters were sophisticats who ate with their elbows off the table. They had killed their primal urges and natural instincts – blood lust was passé and the dance floor was the new scratching post. Papercut played along, he was smart enough to ape his shipmates’ actions but he wasn’t like them. All he saw as he scanned the deck of dancing cats was exposed genitals – sex organs bopping in time to the Boss’s beats. Spare parts and broken hearts, keep the world turning around.
Papercut turned away from the dance floor in disgust, both at his own inability to subdue his inner-savage and because Jackie O had just tripped over mid-boogie and the scenario was too embarrassing to endure. The smell of fresh squid wafted up to his moist nostrils and he scanned the deck for the kill. A group of ten or so were sitting at the dining table, set with cutlery and china plates. He watched as they ate with their mouths shut tight, chewing twenty times before swallowing each morsel of squid from the carcass that was laid out funerary style on the table. To every other cat at the table it was a civil meal, a nice spread of fresh squid. To Papercut it was a giant penis being pawed at, drooled over, and devoured. He felt a rush of heat to his head, which he shook in shame at his own depravity.