probablywhisper - Random Thoughts
probablywhisper
Random Thoughts

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Oh Hey I Can Talk About My Cat OCs With The Void

Oh hey I can talk about my cat OCs with the void

1: I have at least 50 distinct and designed cat characters

2: there’s at least 150 more that have a name

3: I only care about 10 of them at a time (and one of them is ALWAYS Peachspring)

4: I tried to write a story for them but 5 POV characters is too many imo

Oh Hey I Can Talk About My Cat OCs With The Void
Tags
writing warrior cats warriors oc the struggle y’all there’s like 10 different versions of Peachspring half of them are evil she also has the most trauma because she’s the favorite y’know? she’s only 3 years old why am I like this let’s not even get started on Hazel she’s not a cat she was my first ever oc beloved girl back to cats peachspring is a disaster bi also ambiamorous also duoflux also a murderer??? but also doesn’t want to be it just happens
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probablywhisper
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Between 2019 and 2022, I maintained an obscure bit where I pretended to write a noir novel featuring the world's last detective in a Los Angeles where everyone lives in one shack. Here it all is for the first time on Tumblr.

THE SAD DETECTIVE MAN I. The city of angels, they call it. Hollywood. The Big Easy. The place Danny DeVito lives. It's the place dreams are made of, they say. Liars, all of them. More full of shit than the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. I've walked these mean streets and there's nothing on them but crime and shit. There is not one decent man here, except Danny DeVito, he seems like a class act. But the rest of them? They're full of the darkness you get in your heart from living in this wretched city. Angelville. The Windy City. S-town. One of two places on Earth to know who Mike Trout is. There aren't even streets here. No one tells ya, kid, that Los Angeles is just one big shack, and everyone lives there, and there's one big pit everyone pisses in, and that's where they make the Golden Globes. They don't tell ya that. They don't fuckin' tell ya that, do they?
A dame walked into my office. She had legs that don't quit. Seriously, they've been trapped in a dead-end job for years but don't feel secure leaving it. Damn shame. She was the type of dame whose legs yearned to unionize, and whose head was topped with fiery hair (my lamp sparked again) and a Jeb Bush button. Here was a lady at war with herself. “What brings ya in here, toots?” I said cooly, remembering the many women who die in my cases. Odd, given I only investigate bounced checks. “Oh, I'm devastated. I tried poisoning my husband and, uh...” She blushed. “He went...missing...with poison in is, uh-” “Missing, eh? I'll help ya find him.” “He's already dead.” “We'll find his body.” “I, uh, have his body.” “Already murdered...damn.” I smoothly lit some chalk. “I'll find the bastards who did this. And bury him behind the piss pit, too. Least I can do.”
“You may think I'm a bad man. A infamous bad man, if you will,” said Sydney de Villein III, crunching the last condor egg into his rubbery omelet. “But I'll have you know that I donate a great deal of money to the cause of childhood cancer.” “So you help kids. So what?” “Help...kids? No, Mr. Detectiveman, don't be absurd. I'm funding the cancer.” “A noble cause. Doesn't change that you killed a dozen men just to keep a streetcar from getting built.” I flicked my lighter, accidentally lighting a stuffed thylacine on fire. “I've killed more men then you've kissed. You know as well as I do that if you reach an even fifty, it loops around and becomes legal again since no one can do fifty crimes.” Damn. He knew the law inside and out. “Doesn't matter. I have what I need to put you away before you even reach forty-nine.” “How? Ellen hasn't been writing any pages in-between these bits, you idiot! You have nothing!” “What?” How could this be? Though Ellen was intelligent and gorgeous, and creative, and also clever, and eminently available, ladies, she hadn't written all of my book? “She hasn't,” he replied via his telepathy, “and I ain't so sure she knows what eminently means, either.”
A dame came walkin' into my office today, and one glance at her told me she was no angel. No wings, only two eyes, and when she spoke, my head didn't crumble under the weight of learnin' no name of God. “Oh, Detectiveman, it's horrible,” she said breathlessly, “my husband went missing and...” Her face went blue. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Take a breath, if that's what you want.” I coolly lit a cigarette and threw it out the window in one smooth motion. “I'm not about to deny no woman no agency.” “W-what?” She said, taking in breaths like a fish that's taking in breath but not dying, like a fish taking in breath. “After my last case, I realized us private eyes, we've got some issues with women.” I pulled out another cigarette. “So I stopped talkin'...and started listenin'.” “I've seen a lot of stuff on the mean streets of Los Angeles - gangs, drugs, even a taping of The Big Bang Theory - but I never thought I'd see a woke detective.” She noticed me lighting another cigarette and tossing it outside, as is my wont. “What...what are you doing?” “Starting fires.” I sighed a raspy sigh. “I fucking hate owls so fucking much.”
Our car stood still underneath a streetlight, staking out the suspect's home. It wasn't hard to find him - after all, everyone in Los Angeles lives in one big cabin. This high-falutin'' mobster piece of shit had himself a really nice room on the corners. Not like me; I was just downwind of the piss pits. “So, Mr. Detectivemen-” “Detectiveman, miss Nootinonhit. It's Swedish.” “Of course,” she said; she'd joined me for the stakeout, after the man who definitely killed her husband. He fell in with some bad customers. Lots of denied cards and shitty treatment of service workers, real nasty customers. “So Mr. Detectiveman, why do you hate owls so much?” “I don't hate owls.” “You're wearing a shirt that says WHY DON'T WE EAT OWLS, and then it's just recipes for owl.” “Damn. You've got me where you want me.” I sighed. “I used to be a lumberjack up in Washington, see? But then these spotted owls come along, being all endangered. Pricks. The Feds told us we couldn't log no more. And before I knew it, I was leadin' Twilight film tours in Forks. Just couldn't take it. Not after she chose Edward.” I slammed my fist on the dashboard. “Ever since then, I've lived by three credos: never trust the Feds, kill every owl, and Team. Jacob. For. Life.”
I walked up the hill behind the victim's wife. We found a perch atop the Hollywood sign: from it, we could see all the sights - the cabin, Disney-Fox-Pararmount-Warner-Legendary-Netflix-Myspace-RKO-Monumental Inc (the world's only film studio!), the poor saps still stranded at the Dark Universe production factories, a ratty billboard for Avatar 2 - opening summer 2123! - and even the glittering lights of sprawling metropoli like Fresno, Sacramento, even Salinas. How I wish I was there instead of this rinky-dink shithole. “Oh, it's horrible,” said my suspiciously-named companion, “my husband's dead, we don't have any clues, and I haven't even been given a first name.” “You may not have a first name, but I'll tell you what you do have, toots. Some great tits.” She gasped. “I thought you were a woke detective, not a common-” I pulled a yellow-black bird out of her bag. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. But that was it. ...one more. “Bird smuggling,” I growled like a fox with a distaste for bird smuggling. “Do you have any idea what this could do to our local insect population?” “I thought you hated birds! I thought you'd look the other way!”
“I hate owls,” I gently stroked the bird's head. “A tit ain't no owl. Except on Furaffinity.” “Isn't it the 1940s?” “That's nebulous.” I let the bird go; it flew away without a second though, just like all my boyfriends. “You and your husband...” “We were young and foolish! You start by accidentally holding one whooping crane for hostage, and then-” A hooting in the night air. “-Mr. Detectiveman, I know who killed my husband.” “Who?” “They figured out what were doing. They got angry.” “WHO?” “...an owl.”
“Another owl-staircase murder,” I lit up a pixie stix. “Happens all the time. Goddamn disgusting birds.” “The Feds didn't believe me.” “The Feds are in the pocket of big owl. Some goddamn wretched hootbeast from Forks. Eats lumberjack bones for breakfast & makes kids at camp dissect 'em.” I said, smoking the sugar. “It's his hideous avian fetish, I think.” “But an owl absolutely murdered my husband. For real. In a fit of hooting rage-” A pounding on the interrogation room door. “OPEN UP! OPEN UP!” I swung the door open, my hand forming a finger-gun in my jacket - not in case of any threat, but because it's the bisexual's default hand posture. I saw the face of Officer Ezra, etched in fine terror - probably by that demented face-painting lemur haunting the old Griffith Park Zoo. “What is it? 'sides Bubbles Joe gettin' his hands on some dang hell chalk again.” “It's raining, detective! And it ain't rainin' no men out there. It's rainin'...” “The mystery droplets!” I yelped. “Goddamn. She's too young!” “RAIN L.A.!” He began to angrily-dab, as is the rite. “RAIN! L.A.!” “RAIN L.A.!” I dab furiously. “RAIN L.A.!” My dab quakes with anger. “Uh...” our forgotten suspect interjects. “Watch out that no owls get to our witness,” I said. “Me, I've gotta get every gun we have and shoot the fuckin' sky.”
A heavy rain fell over the city. A dark rain. A foreboding rain. A rain expected to last til seven PM, 'cording to this here app. Through the rain you could see the whole wretched expanse of the city: the dark shape of the big shack everyone in L.A. lives in, the smokestacks of the Avatar sequel factories, and those signs, shining down from the hill: HOLLYWOOD LOS ANGELES CITY OF... … … DEVILS And that wretched hootbeast, circling right above the gleamin' letters. All around me came gunshots. My comrades shootin' the sky. Making the wicked droplets stop early. A noble task. But it ain't mine. “Miss,” I said, turning to the witness. “I'm gonna go send an owl to Bird Hell.” “Wait! No!” She screamed. “I need...I need to tell you...I killed my husband. For the bird money.” I nodded. “I know that. But I won't turn no lady over to the carceral complex.” “...thanks?” “When this is over, when every last owl is donezo, I'm gonna go back to a profession that respects women: lumberjacks. Now, it's time to give this owl some hootie, and the blown-away-fi-” I shot myself in the leg.
“You're a lucky man, detective. The bullet just grazed your leg. You just need-” “No,” I said through gritted teeth. “No?” “I'm the last detective. If I die, detectives die. And it's time...for detectives to shuffle off into the pages of yesteryear, like sky dancers, or the concept of ethical capitalism.” “Are...you sure?” The doctor stared off into the distance for a while. “Stop fantasizing on me, J.D.!” (A.N.: Scrubs is canon to this story's universe, it just hasn't come up until now) “Sorry. But it'd take you forever to die. It's almost impossible from a wound this-” “The code of the detective must pass into the west! And we're takin' some bastard owls with us!”
Down these mean streets walked a man in a great deal of pain. Physical pain. Emotional pain. The pain of being the last detective left in the entire world, from small towns like Forks to gleaming metropoli like Fresno. Doctors told me that I “only had a flesh wound”. But it's time for the detective to die and go to detective heaven, and for an owl to die and go to bird hell. I looked up through the godforsaken drizzle to that sign on that hill overlookin' Los Angeles: HOLLYWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CITY OF.........DEVILS. “Sad Detectiveman,” said the Hollywood sign, turning sentient. “My existence is only pain! I long to die! But you must live! You must live, Mr. Detectiveman!” “Nope. Can't do it. Time for the Detectiveman...to die.” “I am not even sure a grazed leg can be fatal-” I gritted my teeth. “Sorry, signboy. I gotta an owl to kill.” I shot up at the sign, hopin' to end its misery, but I only killed the last colony of condors. I fell to my knees and screamed. “OWLSSSSSSSSSSS!”
“Whoo, whoo, whoo do you think I am?” The owl owl-noised. “Someone who knows the location of the owl that murdered my client's husband!” I screamed, stamping my foot knee-deep in owl shit up to the elbow. “You think all owls know all other owls?” “No, I think-” The repulsive bird before me started to scarf down some tiny little...wait. “That animal ya got in yer beak, it a mongoose?” “Are you blind, Detectiveman? It's a ferret.” “A ferret. Uh, that a wild ferret or did you buy it?” “It's my ferret! Not yours!” I laughed. Behind the disgusting feather-nerd came the cocking of seventy guns, the schwings of thirty swords, and an explosion from the 5th Grenade Jugglers Regiment. “This is California, pal! And you just brought the Ferret Patrol to yer doorstep!” “No - no! I didn't know it was illegal! It's a friend's ferret!” He spat it out. “See? See?” “You knew the penalty! Now, if ya tell me where yer friend is, maybe -”
“He's at a dramatic local landmark!” “I knew it. Boys...” I walked out. “Wait! You promised!” “You know what you did. Now face the consequences.” I walked out the door and BLAM BLAM ZORP SCHWING SLASH HOO! HOO! HOO! KABOOM BLAM KAPOW -
Alls I knew about this big-ass owl was that he was, A., a big-ass owl, 2. evil, as every last fuckin’ owl is, C. at a dramatic local landmark, 4. had been eluding me for a whole year now. Now, what kinda landmarks are there in Los Angeles? The city of...devils? The Big Easy? The land next to Shohei Ohtani’s home? The home of the world-famous shack were everyone in Los Angeles lives and pisses in? Nothin’! Ain’t nothin’ of note in this rotten burg ‘sides for failed dreams and those tar pits that transport ya into prehistoric times if ya fall into ‘em. It has nothin’ on no Fresno. No Twentynine Palms. Only one thing for a Sad Detectiveman to do. I could already feel my fatal leg laceration harmlessly scab over. I tapped it. “We’ve got some getting’ even to do, and when me and the owl fight, neither of us will leave. ‘til after we do press and get checked up by the medics, then the winner will leave in like, thirty minutes.”
I scoured every landmark on Google’s list of Los Angeles landmarks. I rode Superstar [Limo] at Disney’s California Adventure. I took in the real stars at Griffith Observatory. I paid my respects to Godzilla at the Walk of Fame. I took in modern architecture at the Disney Concert Hall, told the Dodgers to get the hell back to Brooklyn, and did something at Santa Monica Pier. Only one landmark left. The Chinese theater. As I was puttin’ my handprints next to the cast of According to Jim – pre-mermaidification – I saw talon marks. Talons. Like a BIRD. A OWL. And right next to me was that avian bastard. “Caw, caw!” He said owlishly. “You don’t put FOOTPRINTS here, you idiot! The New Beverly’s that way!” “Hoho,” he hooted, and he cut through a poster into – the world of CINEMA...
The Sad Detective Man Returns Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean. That’s me. And if it ain’t presumptuous on my part to say, I don’t think I’m mean. Actually I’ve got – what do they call it? - severe social anxiety. I lit a candy cigarette and passed out from the fumes. When I came to, I could see the lights of Los Angeles from my window. Big city, big deal! Everybody in L.A. lives in one shack in the hills, and everybody’s been outta work since Disney closed down their factories. The only thing big here is...not the crime rates. They’re manageable these days. Y’know this town abolished their police department? And just like anybody who was anybody expected, it was a great move. We don’t need any stinking cops in this “City of Stars” (La La Land, 2017). Just a buncha social workers, Park Department officers with a license to kill anybody who violates the Migratory Bird Treaty Act...and one private eye with nothin’ to lose. Except my Tamagotchi. Been alive since 1997 and I forgot to feed him this morning. Died right there clipped onto my Lisa Frank binder – ain’t that just a metaphor for life?
Tags :
team. jacob. for. life. what a glorious thing to read at this time of night
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probablywhisper
1 year ago
probablywhisper - Random Thoughts
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probablywhisper
1 year ago

wow

I have arrived....

I was never allowed to have a tumblr in the past......but now I am an adult and am free to do whatever I feel like

so I've joined this cesspool

I'm sure this will be great for my mental health

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