A play in one act.

Scene: NANIKA, a semi-abandoned noodle bar in the rough outskirts of Govanhill. Daytime. Cabs and buses occasionally trundle by, also migrants on electric bikes working for corrupt delivery companies which inflate consumer cost and simultaneously rob independent businesses of profit. The sun struggles to escape cloud cover. The pavement is covered in litter and puke.

Enter: MR. WEDNESDAY, a cat.

Mr. Wednesday: "This place looks like shit. Who works here, some butthole? I have never eaten, not one day in my life."

From downstairs emerges MR. JUSTIN. He is covered in flour. He is grotesque. A human monster, blinking and unkempt. His fleece is beautiful, however. Any man would kill to own it.

MR JUSTIN: "Well well well, if it isn't Mr. Wednesday-on-a-Sunday! Could you- Could you not-

MR. WEDNESDAY shoves his whole face into MR. JUSTIN's face like a soft and stupid battering ram. He is screaming for food.

MR. WEDNESDAY: "Well well well, if it isn't Mr. That's-My-Lunch. You got any ham, friend? You got any cured pork? Sausages? Beef jerky? Tuna in hummus? WHAT ABOUT CHICKEN, PAL? I HAVE NEVER EATEN. LOOK AT ME FOR GOD'S SAKE I'M JUST FUR AND BONES OVER HERE. LOOK AT ME. WHAT, YOU CAN'T LOOK AT ME BECAUSE I AM HITTING YOUR FACE WITH MY FACE? HUH? MAYBE I'M TRYING TO RATTLE SOME CHICKEN LOOSE, YOU EVER THINK OF THAT? No, of course not. You only think about yourself. Etc."

From a small plastic tub MR. JUSTIN produces delicious, roasted chicken and quietly admonishes MR. WEDNESDAY.

MR. JUSTIN: "Dude, this is my lunch. I specifically brought this for me to eat today. For lunch. And I'm already kind of late so-"

Mr. WEDNESDAY ignores the pile of chicken that is now on the floor. He screams for food. His voice is deafening. An atonal bleat. MR. JUSTIN carefully picks a strand of pulled chicken from the pile and proffers it, wincing.

MR. WEDNESDAY: "YES. CHICKEN FROM YOUR SAD PATHETIC HANDS TASTES BETTER THAN FLOOR CHICKEN. YOU ARE A WORM. BEG ME TO EAT YOUR LUNCH, MAN OF FLEECE. REMAIN AT EYE LEVEL AND SPEND FIFTEEN MINUTES DOING THIS. IT IS MY WILL. Also, have you thought about painting or something? This place looks grim. You have to do Spring cleaning, even in late September. Unused spaces get that dusty look, you know? And the plants need watered. I'm a cat and even I can tell - DO NOT PET ME JUST PUT CHICKEN IN MY MOUTH. Etc."

MR. JUSTIN: "Dude, for real. That's more than half. Half of what I brought for me, a human man. I brought enough for a fully grown human man and you are the size of like ... both my feet. You do not need that much chicken."

MR. WEDNESDAY screams. He is a void that cannot be filled.

MR. JUSTIN: "I am just going to go back downstairs and grab the buns. I will be right back. Stop screaming."

He descends the ladder. In his absence MR. WEDNESDAY consumes another 200g of delicious chicken, then gives NANIKA a dismissive once-over before disappearing onto the pavement, up the wall, and onto the train tracks. A small stain on the hardwood floor marks the last place chicken was seen. From below rises MR. JUSTIN, his fleece a blaze of unfathomable colour against the grey hellscape that is Glasgow. He is hungry, but only has half a lunch. He glances around for signs of cat and sees only chicken juice, which he diligently cleans. I should dust in here, he thinks, then marches up the road with his buns.

End scene.