Buddy is the kind of cat that everyone meets and says 'aww, he's nice, isn't he?' Then, slowly, their toothy grins and bright eyes start to fade and diminish and they turn to me inquisitively, slight notes of panic rising in their voices, and say 'why is he looking at me like that?' That, my friends, is when Buddy begins his campaign of assault, terror and downright debauchery. That first smile you so unwittingly offered, is just the dose he needs.
Buddy. Quite an ironic choice of name really considering the last thing that Buddy is, is your friend. Oh no. If Buddy had his way, you'd be in tiny pieces under the floorboards so that, should the moment take his fancy, he could prod, slobber and play with your dried up innards while quietly purring incessantly like a madman. Being friends with Buddy would be like entering into a contract of doom and a life confined to his every curious whim. Buddy can't simply like people. He loves them eternally, to death. This could be misconstrued as cute, but these are the workings of a sociopath. A sociopath who would suck on your eyeballs given half the chance and somehow make you feel sorry for him, giving him that very inch to put them in his mouth in the first place.
He might look sleek and sophisticated and is if butter wouldn't melt but look again, dear readers, and see the smoking ashes of perversion in his dull, dead eyes and the unusual black substance on his lips.
This is Buddy.
And, dear readers take heed, you shall never be safe again.
