Megadeth sat inside the monster's cabin beside Ringotingo. A short call from a payphone, as Ringotingo explingoed with a very concise 'because you dumbfucks give everything too-verbose names instead of just calling a phone a PHONE,' and the elongated, boxy monster of faded night and technicolor flames rolled up.

The twoleg inside, a large, large, LARGE male whose skin was a battleground contested by armies of grease, hair, and ash, seemed to know Ringotingo, even calling him 'Chev.' "Kittypet name," he explained. Quite the houselife he must have had, Megadeth figured, given that for the last five hours Ringotingo was driving(o)ing what Firedrinker excitedly reclaimed 'the DeathMetalClan tour bus,' pre-packaged with a groupie and two whores comfortably drinking and snorting piles of 'whatever.'

"How'd you get involved with these guys anyway," Megadeth asked, hopping up to the dashboard. Ringotingo's eyes didn't peer from the road. "Did a gig for them in '92. Needed a replacement bassist after the last guy bailed. Stayed onboard with them and mostly did indie shows around the Boston area for a few years." A tire screeching caught Megadeth off-guard as a monster almost t-boned theirs. The driver shouted something about 'lights' or shit. Ringotingo didn't pay any mind. "Keys split for New York when the emo scene started to rise, and, well, I wanted to do some psychodelic-type of stuff with some new equipment to make up for it. Got a little 'too into it' one night, and next thing I know I'm in an alleyway with Tornstar trying to cut my liver out. You?"

Megadeth shrugged. "I'm a fucking cat."

Before he could elaborate, the male twoleg, shouted, "Can you actually understand these little shits?" Ringotingo hollared back, his meow warping, "Yeah, Nerl, I can." Nerl puffed out a breath, no doubt rolling his eyes (as if the creased and fold occupying his sockets could let anyone check), "He's the cat whisperer," he muttered, before escalating his voice, "Can you ask me what the fuck this bald... rat-looking dude wants? He's creeping me the fuck out."

Firedrinker's gaze fixated on a pouch on Nerl's lap, unwavered even as one of the females, a lanky woman of well-seasoned age, marinated in a plastic stew of of makeup, hair bleach, and lip balm, irritatingly tried to distract him with a snap of her fingers, generously taking a break from pawing the graham cracker crumbs out of Nerl's treasure trail. "Hey kitty," the harpy's voice disturbingly intruded, "How many fingers am I holding up? Hey cat man, can you tell me what Baldy says? He's kinda freaky looking. I'm going to call him Baldy! My name is Amberlee-Olivia." The other woman, a pleasantly plump slampig, mumbled, "He probably has a name."

Firedrinker snarled. Ringotingo called back, continuing his warped-language meow, "He said to shut up and give the bag to him." Amberlee-Olivia gasped in shock, "He did not say THAT! I'm an angel!" Playfully, she nudged Nerl's jiggly chest. "Your friend is being rude." Ringotingo laughed. "Okay, fine, he didn't say that. He said 'close your legs, it smells like an Arby's dumpster in here,' and 'don't hog all the blow you-.'"

For the first time since the monster woke under his command, Firedrinker's eyes parted off the Thunderpath, as he whipped his body around in excitement, shouting "You have COCAINE?!" The concave in their shared couch retained as Nerl started to shuffle about, waving his fingers to the ground in front while staring at Amberlee-Olivia, now disrobing and laying stomach-upwards on the sticky floor. From underneath, a hollow metal something must have rolled underneath the bus. Nerl pointed at Ringotingo. "The cat wants coke?" Firedrinker answered for him with a chirp of a meow. "Okay. Let's ante." Carefully, the man drizzled a small pile onto his mate's torso, using a straightedge to form a trail around a foot in length.

With a wobble in his voice, Nerl started to explain, "that cat can snort that entire line, he can have the bag. He can't, or doesn't, and you snort my smegma-" Narratively, we specify 'started to explain' because Firedrinker hadn't waited for their terms to be signed before pacing his front paws between Amberlee-Olivia's cleavage and making his way down her ribcage.

The entire bus watched, except for Ringotingo, whose attention went back onto the road after their wayward distraction smashed some poor cyclist's back wheel, and almost mangled the son-of-a-bitch, as Firedrinker's nose sniffed air for the first time in forty seconds at Amberlee-Olivia's naval, the latter with a full view of his pickered, victorious anus, unobstructed by a tail standing high in the air. "Holy shit..." Nerl's disbelief was quiet. "Firedrinker's had practice," Ringotingo explained, before actually stopping at a red light for the first time since their journey began.

The cats all started to meow his name, as well as the slampig Twoleg and Nerl, as Firedrinker's pupils dilated, his mind now in another place, watching soap operas on a television in another galaxy. From underneath a table fixed into the wall of the monster's interior, Dreadnaught watched.

"Golly, my name is Dreadnaught and I wish I could be that popular." The voice of Warpaw mockingly teased his brother's ears. Dreadnaught slashed at Warpaw, snagging some fur, mocking back "Hi, my name is Warpaw, and I'm a virgin." Warpaw tilted his head. "Uh... you are too, and that's not changing unless you wanna go all Greek general on us." Dreadnaught started to walk towards the couch, to who else but Nightpaw, comfortably getting the back of her head rubbed by the slampig's big toe. "Hey, Nightpaw," Dreadnaught meowed to the comfy she-cat. "Hey you." Dreadnaught shuffled about. "So, I was thinking about that painting that you did. You know. In the cave. And thought that it was really good." Nightpaw meowed, "Thanks." Dreadnaught meowed, "Yeah. You're really good at painting. Do you do it often?" Nightpaw flicked her ear. "Not really. But thanks for saying that." Dreadnaught obliviously tried to meow, "So what do you like to paint?"

Nightpaw's eyes opened as she stared intensely into Dreadnaught, "I like to paint dolts who break my zen only to make the most boring ass small talk, annoying me with basic questions that don't warrant answers deeper than a few astute words, desperately fishing for me to carry a conversation because they have nothing to offer. Oh, wait. That was a lie. I don't paint that because I don't like looking at that kind of loser. Hint. Hint."

Amidst the background uproar of Firedrinker somehow managing to figure out how to work a shotgun, Dreadnaught could hear Warpaw's laughter. His shoulders hunched, Dreadnaught sulked away. Warpaw brushed his flank. Before he could meow, Dreadnaught snapped at him, "You're an asshole." Warpaw stepped back, eyes wide. "Hey, chill. I just came to offer you some advice." Dreadnaught snarled, but Warpaw continued, "Look. I mean it. Anyway, you need to learn to work off of someone. You don't just want to get to know a girl, you have to also get her to get to know you. Play off it. That's chemistry. Watch." The tomcat bounced over to the slampig's foot, much to the dismay and curiosity of Dreadnaught. Dreadnaught gave it a few beats and, noticing that Warpaw wasn't shunned nor snapped at, peered in, somewhat worried about being caught by Nightpaw.

The horror of his situation clapped from the back of his mind, as, yes, he did need to worry about being caught in Nightpaw's focus, since for now she was carrying a conversation with Warpaw! Dreadnaught leaned in, trying to hear. His heart skipped as he heard Nightpaw's cheery voice, "I never really thought of flowers like that." It then sank into a quagmire of sorrow when his brother's voice reminded him that her joy wasn't his to share. "See, when I wrote The Vagina Roses, it was actually high art!" Nightpaw laughed. She laughed! "That song was literally just 'vagina roses' fifty seven times!" Dreadnaught lowered to the ground at his brother's meanwhile jubilance, "Yeah, not my best work." Utterly defeated, Dreadnaught turned around and skulked to the back of the bus.

Nightpaw collected herself, tucking her paws under her chest. "I think it was." Warpaw's own laughter started to peter out. "I'd hope not. Means I'm getting worse." Nightpaw glanced around a mental pinboard of words. "Well, I meant you've been kind of an asshole lately. But I totally get what you mean." Warpaw nodded his head. "Same." Nightpaw didn't answer back, a calm blink and downward tilt of her head inviting his elaboration. "The 'get what you mean' part. That cave-painting. A destructive beast eating and fucking whatever it sees, for no reason other than 'because it doesn't know any better.' A bit blunt. But it fits that way." Nightpaw's eyes lit up. "You know who it represents?"

Warpaw shook his head. "It was about the Jews, wasn't it?"

Nightpaw remained silent, withholding protest as she was carried into the air by the slampig, now coddling her against her chest. Her voice, even if she was able to talk and consequently move her face out of frozen shock, could barely murmur more than a whimper. Warpaw spared the two of them a parting glance, then turned to go meet with the other apprentices.