#The incredible need to write about an orange cat named Frog Tart

[thrift-store-shrek]

"...Martha Stewart killed John Lennon?"

I sat there, just staring. I felt nauseous, despite the fact I was lying on my kitchen floor. Perhaps the cat sitting on my chest has something to do with it. However, that couldn't be right, because I only had allergies to cucumbers and red onion. Cats were safe, cute, a like fluffy liquid bricks.

"...Frog Tart, what is going on?"

I speak my inquiry to said cat, Frog Tart. He just settles down, his tiny little ginger head, filled with nothing but air and the vague notion of cheese, tucked under his fluffy tail.

Nausea. Right. I needed to throw up- wow, I needed to throw up. I swallow the bile, a disgusting action many people do but won't admit, and lie there.

"...Froggie boy, America's baking sweetheart may have gone to jail for more than tex evasion."

Frog Tart doesn't reply. He's stupid, like a brick. Hes built like one too. But my mind starts wandering. Hm, Jail...

Jail!

It sit bolt upright, and Frog Tart proceeds to use me as a springboard. For a moment, air isn't going in as it used to, and then I can breath.

"I can be a superhero with this."

Much like the notion of cheese Frog Tart has rattling around his brain like a DVD Video logo bouncing off corners of a screen, people always have those thoughtsof becoming a superhero. Raised on books, films, comics, manga, and shows of those talented individuals who fight for the right thing, like the downfall of greedy corporations and governments, or to catch that guy in a suit trying to lower his streets property value, the people have always thirsted to become the one to do it.

Down with the Neighborhood Watch Association and all that.

But now I have the power to see the truths of everything. Brilliant flashes in my brain that suggest an oncoming headache, answers to all my questions popping up as soon as I need them.

I could do anything now!

--

At least, that was what I thought six hours ago.

Its too late to say "sike" I think. Frog Tart would agree if he had the words. Or brain cells.

As it turns out, while Martha Stewart did in fact kill John Lennon, it was an inside job. Apparently, a British boy with a nice face and good voice was a threat of enormous levels. So Martha, thirty-nine years old, was hired by the government to get rid of him.

Just like the sudden death of Lennon, God bless his soul and may he be at peace, I am suddenly now a supervillain.

Burdened with the knowledge that parasites didn't eat JFK's brain, and that Harvey Lee Oswald was a fall guy. I decided to not look in to that after I fell over after seeing the sentence "extraterrestrials wearing high-quality leather jockstraps" flashed in my mind. Some things are better left unsaid. And unseen.

I could pour bleach directly onto my brain, I would.

Instead, I've got sewer smell in my hair. At least Frog Tart is with me.

"Well, Froggy, what to do?"

I ponder aloud. I stroke my dumb, loyal cat. Ginger through and through. Not a thought behind those eyes of his. The void stares back if I look into them.

He meows. He's hungry. I am too. I nod sagely.

"Yes, food. Then maybe world domination?"

I joke around. Frog Tart looks up at me, and suddenly I am reminded that cats aren't as dumb as we think. Not a thought behind those little eyes of his, and yet there a chill down my spine.

"...I was kidding, but the truth is what matters, right?"

Something we were taught as children: always tell the truth. Never lie, not even little ones. Did you steal that cay? Yes. Did you bite him? Yes. Did Martha Stewart kill John Lennon? Yes.

Would I be able to overthrow the government?

Yes.

I have to lie down again. The sewer smell is going to sink into my skin, and I'll smell like what a US presidential candidates pants do. Ew.

A lot can change in six hours. Next time, I'll be more careful when I pray I can skip finals.

"...I should expose how corrupt universities are."

Frog Tart bats my face with one furry orange paw like you'd bat a wicket in badminton.

No more finals, anyway... on the plus side, I know what Banksy looks like.

...on second thought, that's one truth I'd better not tell. I can excuse lying by omission.

Sometimes.

I decide to lie there for a few hours in the sewers, a brief moment of respite before I go full Supervillian and overhaul the entire government just to expose what's really in Hot Cheetos.

You have one super power: The ability to know without fail what the truth is to any asked question. You planned to help the world as a super hero. It took you six hours for the government to declare you public enemy number one and the most deadly super villain alive.