Wrath of the cat

For many, the day has not yet started, but I am on my way home from a real banger with Ivar and Rævne with games like “hit the ring”, “the shark approaches” and “stiff witch” all night long. Before the students awake from the nightmare of unannounced visits from the SiÅs caretakers I usually patrol the corridors at ABC to forget all the stuff Rævna and Ivar. When the students fall out of their filthy beds I rush in the first door to open. I take a quick look in the kitchen and jump on the table so everyone looks at me and gives me something to eat. There is alays one student who cares more about me than lectures, so I take a cowboystretchi n that students room before I head out for new adventures.

I often stroll around to the Hankattloft, where there usually lingers some f--ing sickening smell that rips your nosehairs off, and there is much excitement in speculating on what sort of Arnardo circus business is going on top floor.

Through the day, it is time for some physical activity, some real stomach drags. Eika is next, and nowadays there is a lot of passing bangs registered in my brain as students with real spirit in their skating shoes play hockey and fall down.

After my exercise, my stomach rumbles, and I must get back to Pentagon quick to reach my cat anabolic window. This is the time a cat uses to find nourishment after an excercise. I usually saunter up the stairs, sweaty and horrible, to the Lærken, for there is always life and köenig excitement going on there. Song, dance and drama on the “tallerken” as I usually say. I swallow all the low-hanging fruits from the table, which by the way, is a goddamn huge car hood. Crazy stuff going up there, but it tastes fairly mmm.

Through the evening, things happen and I’m in the modo for some excitement. Usually real good waffles going on by the ladies at the FF-house and that causes a rumpus on the planet, one almost gets more hungry by those waffles before the soon spew up again and you have to fill upp with delicious breezers and homebrewed cider that drops like granite in your gut.

In the end, it is just too freaking creazy to be there and I ramble double-dance down to the Gents Academy where the wheyboys in vest and tie offer the best whiskey samples that turn out to be Jack Daniels with saccharine, yes, the ones you have in your coffee and it tastes really facking uncanny. It is really taking off, TIX on the speakers and TWIX in your back pocket. I need to go.

When the lads fire up their cigars from Tobaksvagnen and engage “SJEIKEN 2015” on max volume, it is time to return. Back to my second home, ABC.

Pusen Brede Cat Benjamin Alexander Faulkner Translator