My Cat Is Richard Ramirez

My cat was born in 2013, the year that Richard died. He popped his clogs through natural causes instead of getting fried.

He had been on Deathrow for a long, long time, missing all the bloodshed. Known as the nightstalker during his rein, a bartender that makes the rum red!

But Dust-man Rusty, my jet-black cat, so loves to maul the mice. If he had hands to hold a knife, I'm sure he would stab and slice.

Every day, when we walk in, getting home and close that door, Rusty sits there  whirling his tale, while there is a laid out carcass on the floor.

All he knows is food and murder. What's wrong with that boy? We closed the flap, changed his food, and gave him a mousy toy.