Day One: Forty-Seven-Second Failure

Sun, 02 Aug 2026 19:23:55 -0500

Noon was the target,
2 p.m. the truth.
No appointment waiting,
no deadline keeping score…
so _late_ remained relative—
and two,
on a road trip,
still lives somewhere
in the general neighborhood of noon.
Finally packed,
finally ready,
one last question still unresolved:
How do you pack a Bubbles?
The only carrier Ava had
was the one he’d arrived in
when she rescued him five weeks earlier—
a cardboard Vet One box
with some holes in it.
It had served its purpose,
but
did
_not_,
in Baron Bubbles’s opinion,
reflect his current station.
Enough perseverance got him secured:
fifty-foot walk to Orcus,
one complaint filed
for each and every one of ’em…
one look at him,
one look at each other—
route revised.
The trip would begin
in the “Proper Cat Carrier” aisle
at PetSmart.
Carried our vocal passenger inside
with some haste,
and a lil’ help
from one happy-to-help associate.
Four models waited:
soft-sided,
hard-sided,
different doors,
zippers,
theories about what a cat might tolerate…
but no selection protocol was required.
Bubbles jumped into his choice,
settled the matter,
requested to be zipped up
so this operation could proceed.
“Yes, Sir.”
On the way out,
grabbed freeze-dried beef liver—
my never-fail
cat-or-dog-or-raccoon-or-whatever treats.
Treats secured,
Baron Bubbles finally riding
in an acceptable chariot…
_now_ we could depart.
First Leg Accepted:
get us
the _hell_
out of Dallas County. (ew)
Considered meandering around it,
but that would’ve added two hours—
even principles have limits.
Agreed to hold our noses and bear it.
Orcus agreed to maintain 85 mph-plus.
Dallas County countered with a crawl,
and teeth remained gritted
until the skyline disappeared
from the rear-view
and the blue skies
and green forests
of the East Texas Piney Woods
finally opened ahead of us.
Orcus was an enthusiastic partner.
Somewhere in there,
Bubbles opened one more ticket:
the facilities situation?
Oops.
Quickly fashioned a suitable loo
in the very back of Orcus,
added a scratching post,
and, while we were at it,
some pillows.
Orcus’s bed now a temporary throne room,
finally eastbound,
the first gas stop arrived.
We went inside,
leaving Bubba
(Ava’s nickname for Bubbles)
to fend for himself in Orcus.
Back first,
opened the door,
and cannot make this shit up:
Bubbles (Bubba?)
sitting in the driver’s seat
with both paws on the wheel.
Had Ava left the keys,
no doubt at all
he and Orcus would be
somewhere in Florida by now.
Under protest,
driver’s seat reclaimed,
Orcus pointed east again.
Leg Two remained mostly uneventful
until Rest Stop Number Three,
when Bubba’s cat harness and leash
finally got their trial.
It worked…
for forty-seven seconds.
At second forty-eight,
Bubbles resigned from domestication
and bolted up the nearest tree.
It took both of us
to corral His Lordship,
entreat him,
return him to Orcus.
Barely.
Naturally, we tried again
at another four or five rest stops,
Bubbles opening up more at each,
the real cat coming out:
more curious,
more adventurous,
more _himself_.
I never expected to have _fun_
with a cat on the road,
and don’t you _dare_
tell Bubba I said that.
After the next stop,
Ava took the wheel.
Everything after that is missing from the logs.
The system came back online
at 11:30 p.m.,
Candlewood Suites,
Pearl, Mississippi—
which is where Day One _should_ have ended.
… to be continued

Return Values

Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:19:55 -0500

Today I left you
and Orca
in Atlanta,
then boarded a flight to DFW
with one bag,
one deeply suspicious itinerary,
and a plan the airline
refused to recognize as round-trip.
One passenger west.
Four return values east.
Even airport math
should’ve caught that.
Somewhere over Alabama,
the cabin lights dimmed,
the whole aircraft dropped
into sleep mode,
and a flight attendant
leaned into my dream.
“Sir,” she said, “your return type is invalid.”
I opened the manifest:
me
Ava
Orcus
Bubbles
Looks valid.
She tapped Orcus.
“Vehicle.”
Correct.
“Vehicles can’t be return values.”
Ma’am,
Orcus is a Purple Reign Gladiator
named like the underworld
opened a truck division.
He isn’t baggage.
He is the return statement.
She tapped Bubbles.
“Unclassified.”
Also correct.
Bubbles is
a rounding error with claws,
a tiny hostile takeover
wearing a kitten suit,
and the only known authority
whose hiss radius can cross state lines
without a permit.
Ava requires no explanation.
She is the only entry
on this manifest
with any reasonable chance
of knowing what’s going on.
The flight attendant studied the list,
then me,
then Bubbles…
who had appeared on the beverage cart
and placed one paw
on federal aviation regulations.
The regulations marked themselves optional.
DFW appeared below us
like a motherboard
that kept adding terminals
after running out of reasons.
Every runway led to another runway.
Every gate required a train.
Every train announced: STILL DFW.
When the wheels touched Texas,
the dream changed interfaces.
BAGGAGE CLAIM:
Ava: claimed.
Orcus: technically parked.
Bubbles: has rejected
the entire ownership model.
Me: looking for coffee.
Then I-20 unrolled beneath us
like a stack trace:
Fort Worth
Shreveport
Vicksburg
Birmingham
Atlanta
each city insisting
the bug started
one exit farther west.
Ava took the passenger seat.
I took the wheel.
Orcus took the assignment personally.
Bubbles took control without taking questions.
Texas tried to keep us.
It does that.
Bubbles hissed once.
Texas,
being Texas,
claimed the retreat
was its own idea.
At every state line,
the permissions escalated:
Louisiana: administrator.
Mississippi: superuser.
Alabama: somebody take the keyboard.
Georgia: root.
Meanwhile,
somewhere in the Atlanta process,
Orca sat straight up
for no reason she could explain.
In the dream, you looked at her.
She looked west.
The hiss field had shifted.
Nero detected
an inbound Purple Reign device,
ran one diagnostic,
CAT PAYLOAD: TRUE
and locked his doors.
Allegedly.
325 recalculated occupancy
and began checking
the load-bearing walls.
You were the only system
not panicking.
Which tracks.
And under all that noise,
one instruction stayed plain:
go west empty enough
to bring Ava home,
then point every available wheel
back toward you.
Even dreams know
which coordinate
doesn’t need validating.
By the time Atlanta loaded,
the return array contained:
Ava.
Orcus.
Bubbles.
Me.
And one revised chain of command.
STATUS:
Ava: home.
Orcus: parked.
Me: returned.
Bubbles: root.
Orca has requested a rollback.
Bubbles denied it.

Orcus on Bougyman's Ramblings

Day One: Forty-Seven-Second Failure

Return Values