So the other day I woke up, opened my bedroom door and was blasted in the face by the smell of gas. The window was a crack open- could it be that the asshole Con Ed employees working on the brownouts in my area hit a pipe or something?
But no- the farther I walked in my apartment the worse the smell became. I lit a match to see my way (no I didn’t) and soon found out where the smell was coming from. My oven. The front-right burner was clacking away, trying in vain to ignite the gas pumping out… but the flame wasn’t on and the gas was steadily filling up the house.
It’s then that I discovered who had tried to kill me. He was still at the scene of the crime, slinking around all guilty-like, giving me the eye and hoping, perhaps, to be fed.
I think I might have nailed the motive, as well.
See, this is the sad thing. My cat’s name? Tyler Durden. I didn’t fucking name him… the previous owner (who had him for a month and was going to give him back to a shelter) did. We just call him Tyler so he can hide his shame.
Although I do secretly delight in grabbing him and shaking him, screaming “YOU ARE NOT YOUR FUCKING KHAKIS!”…
Anyway, it’s obvious that he’s ashamed of his real name, and falsely think we were the ones to bestow him with it. He must have watched the movie and figured that blowing up our apartment Durden-style would be the best way to be rid us of both us and our Ikea furniture.
Anyway, we took all the knobs off the oven and are hoping he doesn’t figure out another way to get at us and make it look like an accident.