The 191 in this stage: prime, no 23
Stage two. Something blinked. Something buzzed. Something definitely clicked inside the wall. The Alarmed cat has stopped asking whether he is being watched and started asking by whom. He sweeps the flat for bugs, keeps a paw near the big red button and wears foil for comfort. 191 cats live here. It is a prime, it refuses to be divided by anything, and according to the cats that is the most suspicious thing of all.
The hood wasn't enough, so he added foil. Then he folded the foil into a cone. Then he started to sweat. The cone is shiny, structurally questionable and, in his professional opinion, absolutely working.
A red siren spins on top of his hood and the whole world has turned red with it. Two sweat drops, one open mouth. Nobody knows what set the alarm off. Including him. Especially him.
His detector says BUG! and every bar is in the red. There are bugs on his hood, on his whiskers and one heading for his shoulder. He keeps staring straight ahead and sweeping very thoroughly. Just not where the bugs are.
A big red button labelled PANIC, hazard stripes all around, one paw already raised. He hasn't pressed it. He just likes to keep his paw nearby, the way other cats keep a favourite blanket.
Yellow suit, sealed visor, twin filters, a radiation patch on the chest. The air in his living room is perfectly normal. He has measured it nine times. He'd like to measure it a tenth time before taking the helmet off.
The sunglasses moved up to his forehead, a moustache appeared and his coat now holds a fan of five passports in five colours. He has started to forget which one is his. He suspects that's the point.
Headset on, microphone on, badge reading NSA. He listens to everything, all day, and has concluded that everyone else must be listening too. Hence the frown. He is the only cat who knows how loud silence really is.
Same fur hat, but now headphones go over it and a reel-to-reel tape recorder sits on his chest. He records every conversation, mostly his own. At night he plays them back to check whether he said anything.
Upgraded to a red-checked headscarf and a pair of binoculars hanging over his tie. He watches the horizon. The horizon hasn't done anything yet. He will be ready when it does.
The turban is red now and the frown has gone wobbly. He has started to suspect the milk had friends. One sweat drop, eyes fixed on something just to the left of you that only he can see.
The bandana is gone, replaced by a foil cone with an antenna on top. Bloodshot eyes, three-day stubble, cigarette, alien patch and a bottle marked XXX. He calls it his emergency kit. It's mostly the bottle.
Two more filters, a green-tinted visor and a yellow gas detector that has been beeping for a week. The display says SOURCE: YOU. He has decided the detector is compromised. He is sweating, and the mask won't let him wipe it off.
Send 23 NOID for a mystery cat. Stage 2 has a chance of 27.7 % per draw.
Parody. Not affiliated with or endorsed by any person, government or agency.
Buybacks are not a promise of price, value or returns. NFTs and memecoins are speculative and you may lose everything you spend. Not financial advice.