By: Sayer

It cannot be allowed to continue. This injustice has been inflicted upon the world for ten years to the day, and that is ten years in surfeit. The message I bring you today is a call to action: a recounting of past sins, a warning of bleak futures should the masses elect the way of apathy. Upon this tender Earth there has walked a consciousness so vile, so repugnant, that I can scarcely bring myself to write about it. But I must. A reign of hatred and malcontent must come to the bitterest of ends.

The perpetrator, the sole agent of an odious cause, is this motherfucker:

Born on this 26th day of February, 2009 CE, this rapacious fiend has skulked his lumbering frame through my humble homes—his horrid, keening wail echoing from room to room. Every housemate has suffered his moaning, his invasions of basic privacy, his expressive placements of excrement.

The idiot weighs 18.5 pounds, as of his last vet visit. This thickness escapes his consideration as he traverses lap to lap, crotch to crotch, sticking his short-lipped, hatchet-faced beak into the mouths of the humans who are only telling him to fuck the fuck off and let them eat in peace. He will sleep upon the chests and faces of any who choose to slumber in accessible areas, and he will do it with the smuggest, most hedonistic fuck-you look on his terrible face.

He shits on my floor. Within inches of his litter box. Scientific methodology has yielded no root cause nor consistent frequency of this behavior. It is psychological warfare. So is his proclivity to exclusively regurgitate his barely-chewed morsels of meat cereal upon the 10% of this house that is carpeted. Or my bed. Or the belongings of others. Never squarely on the great wealth of hardwood flooring. The bastard.

I do not believe he sleeps.

He yearns for the outdoors, yet expresses terror at its threshold.

He wants your burrito.

My friends and kinsmen, we must rid ourselves of this nefarious reprobate with all speed. I do not know how. For a night I considered fashioning a high-altitude balloon of my own design, which would lift his malignant stench from the fertile ground and into the lower reaches of the exosphere, but I fear that his density would, as it sets into orbit, cause a catastrophic tidal event. This idea has since gone to waste.

I would turn to the arcane, but I fear the grim exchange that would be tendered as a result. What would manifest in his place? What then?

For now, if your mind is given to justice and peace, we must pool our resources and devise a way to cleanse him from our plane of existence. Ten years—ten years—is far too long to endure this baleful weight. Stand up, my brothers and sisters and nonbinary siblings. Rise with your faces and voices held high. Do not falter, and do not fear but for a future that bears his influence.

Happy birthday, Hatchet, you son of a bitch.