Gadzooks, my grovelling gigglers! You've been having a time of it, haven't you! The catalogue of your misfortunes is like unto the sufferings of Job, a noted biblical victim of the insane gods that rule the benighted universe. Though in that time, of course, the gods were suffering from the delusion they were a single personality known as the 'one true god' rather than the more familiar schizophrenic gaggle. They thus created a delusion called 'monotheism' that still lies heavy on the lives of those born to heartache and sorrow (that's your wretched selves, in case you'd forgotten).
Anyway, enough of these cheerful theistic assertions. Let us return to the chapter and verse of your suffering. Were you not incarcerated for a now long forgotten crime! Were you not sprung from stir to join forces with a crime lord known as Mr Griffin! Did this crime lord not prove to be a mythological creature, eons old and made from stone? And, having been scared out of your wits (a mercifully brief process) by said mythic beast, did you not go into the fashion business as a mask for nefarious activity, designing a fashion accessory known as Pussy's bow? And did you not then begin sexual relations with a creature of indeterminate gender called Arimaspia that continues to give you more pleasure than you've ever known in your futile and wretched life!
While this last matter may not yet appear to be unfortunate, it will prove so in time. I can guarantee that, my puling pussies! My vanities of styling mousse and gel! For I am Asperitus, malign magus of oracular utterance. And these are the vile and bitter prognostications for awful April. We left you last time in the erotic clutches of Arimaspia and in the power, it seems, of the mysterious, malefic Mr Griffin. However, as you have had both sex and praise in the last little while, your concern about your dire situation has diminished more than somewhat. In fact, all you are really interested in is having second helpings of both, plus a decent meal. You set about the former (sex).
Do crime lords never eat, you wonder vaguely as Arimaspia demonstrates a bodily control and suppleness you had previously associated with only reptiles, if you had considered them at all. Once this latest congress is ended, you find the table laid with food, aromatic and exotic, as though your mind had been read (an act that will have been mercifully brief for the perpetrator). You sit to eat, as Arimaspia lies poised and at the ready for further delightful concourse of the flesh. Perhaps in place of desert! Now, it's only another helping of praise you have to work on. As you are about to place a forkful of the spicy delight between your lips, out of the shimmering air, appears the mesmerizing Mr Griffin once more, upsetting the delicate balance of your digestive juices. Of course, this latest manifestation takes place under the auspices of the odious New Moon in arrogant Aries, one that brings an Eclipse to your solar ninth house.
'Pussy,' rasps Mr Griffin, 'I am sorry to be interrupting your pleasures but there are pressing matters of business to discuss.' The fork sits, frozen. You vaguely consider stabbing yourself in the nose with it then laughing hysterically. A watery feeling is growing in your bowels.
'You know, Pussy! The only difference between crime and legitimate business is the mask of law, an item always available to the highest bidder. If people were wiser, they would know this!' He sighs, a gentle efflation of dust and spittle. Great gods alive and dead! He's speaking in the subjunctive. And you haven't even eaten yet. How ghastly for you!
As mischievous Mercury continues his perverse reversal in your solar ninth house, Mr Griffin enters upon a mind-numbing dissertation on crime, personal morality and social behaviour, presenting you with an unflinchingly corrupt and decadent view of humanity. Of course, you forget everything he says on the instant, as you do with topics that require an I. Q. in excess of an inside leg measurement. However, the effect of this disturbing peroration is to totally shatter the infrastructure of your personal beliefs and entirely destroy the foundations of your moral character. Of course, that is accomplished in seconds! You are dazzled, little felines. Drunk with the elixir of crime and the glamour of the underworld! Your mind emptier than usual of coherent thought! Marauding Mars wrestles with nasty Neptune and you fall deep under the sway of this mesmeric elemental being, Mr Griffin.
Vamping Venus enters cloddish Taurus and cavorts in unseemly manner with cranky Chiron and you heave Arimaspia to the laden table and sate both appetites at once! Marauding Mars ruts in the gutters of Heaven (or is it Hell) with lugubrious Saturn and you choose the 'left hand' path. 'Ha! Ha!' you shriek aloud in devilish manner, for a variety of reasons. The great Sol Invicti also navigates the cloddish climes of the Bull, clashing with cranky Chiron and coming to a blaze of chill necrotic light in gruesome Scorpio, a blaze soon darkened by a lunar eclipse in your solar fourth house. You thereupon eschew all ties of blood (your family hates you anyway) and the moral code determined by your miserable fellows (who've never done anything but criticize your hair). You will be Pussy Mabusť, a fearsome and amoral demon prince of the underworld. You will stand side by side with the incarnate evil of Mr Griffin and match him (or it), immoral act for immoral act, corruption for corruption, nefarious scheme for nefarious scheme!
But, my feline wretches, will you be his partner or his puppet? Click here next time and see! Until then, ave, wretched felines!