Was it with the Weeping Eye all along?

Don't let it beguile you.

This is no fascist. Look at that indifferent lounge, that fluffy coif...

No no, look at the fangs, the poise, the quick eager paws. That's the build of a worker.

This is a cat. You are upset about the corpse situation and you are taking it out on a cat.

The sound reaches out to something in your heart, soothes it.

Fuck! Look away, that's fucking demonic.

You're still talking to a cat. Stop. People can hear you.

Stop!

You're going to go insane with feline apathy.

Bloody pawprints on the grass, none on its fur.

Licked clean. It has absolved itself of him.

The pawprints are leading to the shed.

Investigate.

Gummy rubber tip gone brittle.

She's covered her tracks well.

Sour-funky-staleness. A bit of lint from the bottom of the bag fuzzes against your tongue, but you taste none of the tell-tale earwax and aspartame flavor of ecstasy.

This is soothing as fuck. Babies are onto something.

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the hard candies, the cigarettes...

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the cigarettes...

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the hard candies...

A far-off sense memory: the taste of your thumb, once-soothing, suddenly bitter and sour. Painted with foul-tasting polish to keep you from sucking it.

Squished and bounced around in the bag, they've come un-stuck from the textbook's pages.

Hazy memories flick by. Among them, you see the amalgamation of bitter flesh that birthed you, sitting like a creature in her lair.

Grrrrrr...

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of mildew and urine.

Sniff test determines you may be dehydrated.

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of stale coffee and mildew.

There's definitely ants in there. Crawling colonies swarmed in the sticky-sweet syrup that's soaked into the pages... countless tiny horrible legs ready to tickle your skin...

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of sour alcohol and mildew.

A work of psychology. SILHOUETTE's been honing her craft in her free time.

Sure would be a shame if something... happened to it.

Glug glug glug. A sickly sugary odor rises from the bag as the sticky beige liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A rich acidic odor rises from the bag as the tar-black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A strong, slightly chemical odor rises from the bag as the thin black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A sweet, malty odour rises from the bag as the dark liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A smoky odour rises from the bag as the clear liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A thin, hoppy odour rises from the bag as the yellow liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Perhaps a more subtle revenge can be arranged?

Sign our name to that shit, so she knows better than to fuck with the gäng again!

Not to mention this makes Duchess highly suspect. You may have been consorting with an operant the whole time.

Operant CASCADE is classified ONLY CHILD. Understanding of sibling dynamics best described as 'theoretical'.

No boots in the house. A tidy, meticulous occupant.

A hundred old women's eyes watch this alley from behind the lacy curtains of their windows.

A granopticon.

Don't trust it. Feels like bait.

This makes Duchess highly suspect. You may have been consorting with the enemy this whole time.

An electric shudder passes through the deepest canals of your body. Painless but concerning.

Checks