“Apology accepted. But remember, Reginald…” She folds the curtain into a perfect square. “I know where you sleep.”
Karen bursts inside, dragging a mud-caked Reginald. She finds her counters. Every single surface. Covered in a thin, greasy smudge . Not dirt. Cooking oil . Deliberately applied in paw-print patterns. “Apology accepted
Reginald is back. But he is different . His paws are clean. His fur is immaculate. And trailing behind him—a single, perfect, artery-spray streak of red liquid across her white outdoor rug. She finds her counters
SPLAT.
Cindy stands at the property line. She holds a freshly steamed curtain, pristine white. Reginald, on the other side, drops a single, dry leaf at her feet. Not dirt
CINDY BRUTUS (40s, hair in a frantic bun, wearing a housecoat that has seen things ) moves like a caffeinated cheetah. She does not walk. She deploys .