Just a heads up. Anyone living in town that was at the disastrous Amundsen’s Inaugural Thanksgiving Bash is on notice.

Rumplestiltzkat has escaped.

That’s right. Everyone’s most loathed Demon-in-a-Fur-Coat stalks the streets, seeking vengeance on the living and the dead alike.

I never believed in Hell until I met this cat, at which point I understood where the stories that kept our hominid ancestors up at night came from. This cat is evil. Like “Yes, bubonic plague? Land wars in Asia? Crystal Pepsi? I had nothing to KNIFE IN YOUR EYES!”

One has to feel bad for the Amundsens. They love this cat. Or at least, they desperately want to love it, and have gone to great lengths to minimize the terror it can sow. Their windows open with two latches. All their doors have little mudrooms between them that act like anti-kitty airlocks. In fact, they keep meds in their home usually reserved for tagging lions, tigers, and bears. Children don’t dare look at the Amundsen house as they pass for fear that making eye contact will enrage the cat, allowing it to phase through solid matter and eat their faces.

“After he dies, I don’t think we’re getting another cat,” the mayor sighed. “We just wanted a cute little fuzzle. We’ve had other cats. None of them have been like this. Man, I’m just glad the kids are at college and are free of this. We’ve tried putting him down three times, and all three times, he was on our front porch the next day, with the vets closing their practices or not returning phone calls.”

So, on top of racoons, badgers, pokemon and tourists, we now must contend with the most violent entity this town has known since Foreman Bob back in 1905.

Lock your doors, accept that your lawn will look like the floor of a sausage factory, and pray to any deity you have ins with that this can all be over quickly