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Back in the Mayhem cage, it was loud.
And it was made worse with Øystein’s existential crisis.
He was pacing the living room like a theatrical villain who had just realized his grand plan involved pure idiots.
“You don’t like it?!” Øystein shouted, hands thrown everywhere.
Jørn sat on the couch, ears slightly smaller than before but still very much there, tail flicking irritably behind him.
“No, I don’t like it!” he snapped. “I’ve been to two churches, one creepy old woman who burned rosemary on my head, and some street magician who tried to pull a snake out of my jacket. Nothing works!”
Øystein stopped pacing and stared at him like he’d just heard the worst news for the Circle.
Inside his head, the meltdown was nuclear.
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it. The bassist has accidentally become the most visually interesting person in the entire Norwegian scene and he doesn’t LIKE IT.
He looked at the photos like they were of the holy scriptures of Jørn mid-lunge, his hair wild, eyes glowing red, fangs showing, motion blur like a demon breaking through reality.
This is the future of black metal marketing.
Meanwhile, Jørn looked like a guy who just wanted to scratch his head in peace.
Øystein dragged both hands down his face.
“We could’ve been legendary,” he muttered dramatically. “A phenomenon. A movement.”
Jan leaned against the wall, unimpressed.
“We are a movement. Mostly bowel-related after your cooking.”
Øystein ignored him.
“Get it?! We could’ve sold shirts, posters, interviews—like fast selling, and oh, Japan would’ve loved this.”
“I’m not becoming a mascot, Øystein.”
“IT’S A BRAND, HIMBO.”
Across the couch, Pelle was sitting next to Jørn, completely quiet.
One hand absentmindedly holding Jørn’s tail, observing.
He ran two fingers through the fur slowly, like someone studying something they weren’t sure was real.
The tail twitched.
Pelle blinked.
Did it twitch because of him?
He tried again, gently brushing along it.
Another flick.
His expression didn’t change, but internally something small and strange was happening.
So this is what it feels like.
He had spent years pretending to hate cats. Kicking them away, chasing them off, talking about how useless they were.
Mostly for the aesthetic.
Mostly because being cruel looked “hard.”
But this—
This soft, warm thing swaying in his hand—
It didn’t feel like something he hated.
It felt like something he didn’t understand yet.
Jørn finally noticed.
He turned his head slowly.
“…Pelle.”
No response.
Pelle continued lightly combing the tail with his fingers like he was testing gravity.
“Pelle.”
Still nothing.
“PELLE WHY ARE YOU PETTING MY TAIL.”
Pelle blinked like he’d just been caught doing something completely normal.
“…Testing something.”
Øystein pointed at them like a courtroom prosecutor.
“SEE?! THIS IS WHAT I FUCKING MEAN. This band has become a theater troupe.”
Jan shrugged.
“I dunno man. The cat’s real. That’s method acting.”
Pelle finally spoke again, quieter this time.
“I might need to admit something.”
Everyone looked at him.
Which was rare. Pelle didn’t volunteer information.
He scratched the back of his neck.
“…I don’t actually dislike cats.”
Silence.
Øystein froze.
Jan blinked.
Jørn’s ears tilted forward.
Pelle continued, flat voice and all.
“I just said that because it sounded cooler.”
Øystein exploded.
“OH MY GOD.”
He threw his arms in the air.
“NOW HOW DO YOU THREAT ANYONE TO GET TO LISTEN TO OUR MUSIC? WE'RE NOW A, WHAT, COMMUNITY THEATRE?”
Jan laughed so hard he nearly choked.
“Threatre.”
Meanwhile Jørn looked between them all, exhausted.
He had visited churches, sorcerers, fortune tellers, and even one guy who claimed to be a “Nordic spiritual technician.”
Nothing fixed it.
And now his bandmates were arguing about branding and emotional honesty.
He sighed.
“Now can someone at least help with the itching.”
Jan immediately tossed him a grooming brush.
“Already ahead of you, kitty.”
Pelle reached for it first.
Jørn groaned.
“Oh, not you again.”
Pelle calmly started brushing behind his ears.
Within three seconds, he was purring.
Jørn froze.
Everyone heard it.
Jørn jerked upright the second the sound escaped him.
“What the fuck—” he choked, grabbing his throat like the purring had physically attacked him. “I can’t even breathe without that happening now?!”
Pelle paused mid-brush but didn’t look particularly alarmed. He tilted his head slightly, observing Jørn like someone studying a strange but fascinating animal.
“…Interesting,” he muttered.
Jørn snapped his head toward him. “Interesting?! I’m turning into a fucking engine over here!”
Across the room, Jan—who had somehow produced a cigarette and a bag of something unfamiliar—leaned back in his chair with the smug confidence of a man who knew way too much about substances.
He smirked.
“Need some catnip?”
The room went silent.
Jørn stared at him.
“Jan.”
Jan shrugged casually. “What? I’m just saying. If it works on cats…”
“I AM NOT TESTING DRUGS MEANT FOR PETS.”
Øystein, who had been quietly writing in a notebook labeled “Deathlike Marketing Concepts”, suddenly looked up with terrifying enthusiasm.
“Wait.”
Everyone groaned immediately.
“No.”
But Øystein was already standing.
“No no no listen—what if we lean into this? The whole catnip idea for adrenaline boost?!”
Jan burst out laughing.
“That’s actually metal as hell.”
Jørn looked like he was seconds away from biting someone.
Meanwhile, Pelle had quietly resumed brushing behind Jørn’s ears.
The tail flicked again.
Another low rrrrrrr started building in Jørn’s chest.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned toward Pelle.
“…If you don’t stop doing that right now I’m going to bite you.”
Pelle blinked.
Then shrugged.
“Wanna try?”
From across the room, Øystein lifted the camera again.
‘click’
He grinned like a mad scientist.
Jørn shot up from the couch in an exaggerated dash.
“Y’all are making me a doll for this shit,” he snapped, tail lashing once behind him.
Before anyone could respond, he stormed down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door.
The old mirror above the sink rattled slightly.
Inside, Jørn gripped the edges of the sink and stared at his reflection. For a moment he just breathed, trying to steady himself.
Then his eyes drifted upward.
The ears.
Still there.
Smaller than before, but still held the shape.
“…Goddammit.”
He grabbed one of them and tugged.
Hard.
Pain shot straight through his skull.
“AGH!”
He immediately let go, clutching his head. His claws had popped out without him noticing, scratching faint marks into the porcelain sink.
He bared his teeth at the mirror.
The fangs were sharper again.
Not huge, but definitely not normal either.
He leaned closer.
“…Are those…”
He rubbed the side of his upper lip.
Thin, pale whiskers had started forming along the edges of his mustache. Not full cat whiskers, but enough to make his stomach drop.
His ears flattened automatically.
“No, no, no—this is getting worse.”
He tried again, grabbing the tail behind him and pulling like he was trying to rip a cable out of a wall.
Bad idea.
A sharp jolt shot up his spine.
“FUCK!”
He dropped it instantly, breathing hard.
From outside the door came muffled voices.
Jan’s voice first.
“Did he just try to unplug himself?”
Øystein answered immediately.
“If he damages the tail I swear to God—”
Jørn yanked the bathroom door open.
“I CAN HEAR YOU.”
All three of them looked up.
Pelle was sitting on the couch again, brush still in his hand like he had never moved.
Øystein’s camera was already halfway raised.
Jan was eating chips.
Jørn pointed angrily at his face.
“It’s spreading.”
That actually got their attention.
Øystein leaned forward. “Define spreading.”
Jørn gestured to his upper lip.
“Whiskers.”
Jan leaned sideways to get a better look.
“Oh damn...”
Øystein’s eyes lit up like Christmas.
“Evolution.”
“THIS IS NOT EVOLUTION.”
Pelle stood up slowly and walked over.
Jørn instinctively took half a step back.
Pelle leaned closer, studying his face with quiet focus.
Then he gently brushed a finger near one of the whiskers.
Jørn flinched.
His ears twitched, and unfortunately—
rrrrrrrrr
The purr started again.
Jørn froze in horror.
Jan doubled over laughing.
Øystein took another picture.
‘click’
Pelle tilted his head slightly.
“They’re sensitive.”
Jørn covered his face with both hands.
“I’m never gonna forgive you bunch.”
Øystein lowered the camera with a satisfied grin.
“Good.”
“Why good?!”
“Because if you keep evolving like this,” Øystein said, pointing the camera at him again, “we’re about to have the most legendary album cover in black metal history.”
Jørn stood there for a moment, breathing slowly, hands still half-raised from his little meltdown. The phrase black metal didn’t even mean a thing to him anymore now that he'd been cursed. The room was quiet now.
Then something clicked in his head.
His eyes unfocused slightly.
He imagined it.
His bass. The strings. His hand moving across them.
But instead of blunt human nails, one of his claws hooked the string and pulled.
twang
The note snapped through the air with a crisp bite he’d never heard before.
His pupils widened.
“…Unless.”
Øystein immediately leaned forward like a businessman smelling profit.
“Unless?”
Jørn slowly lowered his hands, looking at them like they were brand-new equipment.
“Unless it doesn’t actually ruin the music,” he said, voice suddenly thoughtful instead of panicked.
“Goddammit, I was too busy reacting to y’all’s fantasy bullshit.”
Jan blinked.
“…What?”
Jørn grabbed his bass from the corner of the room, slinging the strap over his shoulder. His tail swayed behind him as he adjusted the instrument.
He flexed one hand.
The claws slid out with a soft click.
Øystein’s eyes widened.
Pelle stopped moving completely.
Jørn plucked a string carefully.
TWANG.
Everyone froze.
The note rang out tight, aggressive, metallic, even.
Jørn tried again, this time running a quick riff.
TWANG TWANG TRRANG
The tone cut through the room like broken glass.
Jan’s jaw dropped.
Øystein slowly stood up.
“Do that again.”
Jørn played the riff again, faster this time. The claws hooked the strings perfectly, giving each note a sharp snap.
When he stopped, the room stayed silent for a full second.
Then Øystein whispered like he’d just seen God.
“This is the best accident that has ever happened to this band.”
Jan nodded slowly.
“Dude just evolved into a built-in distortion pedal.”
Pelle stepped closer, watching Jørn’s hand move across the strings. His expression stayed neutral, but his eyes were focused.
Jørn looked up at them with a crooked grin.
He hit another riff.
“Maybe I’m an upgrade. Mascot no more.”
Øystein grabbed his notebook again immediately.
Jan pointed at the tail swaying behind Jørn.
“Yeah but you still gotta deal with that thing knocking beers off tables.”
Right on cue—
thunk
Jørn’s tail smacked a bottle off the table.
It shattered on the floor.
Everyone stared at it.
Jørn sighed.
“…Okay we’re still working out some bugs.”
Øystein was grinning now like he had just grown the tail.
He leaned forward, hands on his knees, eyes bright with the kind of chaotic excitement only he could have.
“You know well you’re the true king in the scene, mate,” he said, voice dropping into an exaggerated, almost mocking purr.
Jørn immediately took a step back.
Not even consciously.
His ears flattened.
His shoulders hunched.
And then—
“SSSSSSSS—”
The hiss came out sharp and instinctive.
Everyone froze.
Jørn pointed a finger at Øystein like he’d just committed a crime.
“You smell like cola and fucking garlic.”
Jan lost it instantly, coughing from laughing.
Øystein sniffed his sleeve defensively.
“My bad. Peppermint’s out.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered, then casually pointed across the room.
At Pelle.
Pelle was still standing nearby, quietly watching the whole exchange like a scientist observing a rare species.
Øystein tilted his head.
“…But you didn’t even flinch being dangerously close to him.”
Jørn paused.
His ears twitched slightly.
Slowly, he glanced over at Pelle.
Pelle just blinked back at him, expression completely flat.
No reaction. No smell complaints. No weird energy.
Just Pelle.
Jørn frowned.
“…That’s different.”
Jan leaned forward immediately.
“Oh this I gotta hear.”
Øystein crossed his arms dramatically.
“Yes, Nekobutcher, please explain why our vocalist doesn’t trigger your garlic detector.”
Jørn scratched behind one of his ears awkwardly.
“…He doesn’t smell like food.”
Silence.
Jan stared.
“…That’s your reason?”
Jørn gestured vaguely toward Pelle.
“He smells like dust. And dead flowers. And winter or some shit.”
Øystein blinked.
Jan burst out laughing again.
Pelle tilted his head slightly, considering that description.
“Winter? Damn, you got it,”
Jørn shrugged.
“Yeah. I dunno. It’s not that annoying.”
Another awkward pause hung in the air.
Then Øystein suddenly snapped his fingers.
“Perfect.”
Jørn groaned immediately.
“No. Whatever that is, no.”
Øystein was already writing again.
“So we've got… The Cat.. The Handler.. and The Garlic Demon.”
Jan pointed at himself.
“Please tell me I’m the garlic demon.”
Øystein nodded.
“Obviously.”
Behind them, Pelle quietly reached out again.
Two fingers brushing the base of Jørn’s ear.
The reaction was instant.
Jørn stiffened.
rrrrrrrrrr
The purr started again.
Jørn covered his face in pure defeat.
“…I hate this band.”
Jan was practically folded into the couch at this point, legs kicked up and shaking with laughter.
“Those reactions keep telling me the otherwise,” he giggled.
Jørn shot him a tired glare, ears drooping a little.
For a moment the room quieted again, the earlier chaos settling into that weird, lazy energy the house always had after too much yelling.
Then Jørn muttered, mostly to himself—
“Literally I feel really weird hating everything about my shape while leaning into the innocent touch of a human to a cat.”
The sentence slipped out before he could stop it.
Everyone paused.
Jan slowly turned his head toward him with a grin growing wider by the second.
Øystein looked like he had just heard the opening line of a stage play.
Pelle, still standing close, didn’t react much—just lightly scratching behind Jørn’s ear again.
rrrrrrrr
Jørn immediately looked annoyed at himself.
He rubbed his face.
“…See? This is exactly what I mean.”
Jan snorted.
“Yeah, man, you’re having a philosophical crisis while purring like a diesel engine.”
Jørn pointed accusingly at him.
“Also you, Jan. You’ve been suspiciously spending most of your time here instead of partying with those street rats you usually hang out with.”
Jan gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been insulted in court.
“Excuse me?!”
He sat up, smirking again.
“I can always save them for later.”
He gestured lazily around the room.
“…There’s just a better show up here.”
Øystein nodded in agreement.
“Honestly yeah. Free entertainment.”
Jørn groaned and slumped back onto the couch.
“…I’m living in a zoo.”
Pelle tilted his head slightly.
“…You are the zoo.”
Jan nearly fell off the couch laughing again.
Jørn groaned and threw an arm over his eyes.
“Øystein, would you fucking stop hurting me with that camera? You’ve been doing it like I’m some major propaganda for your ideal musical image.”
Øystein lowered the camera with exaggerated disappointment.
“Aw, fine, dude.” He shrugged. “It’s just for doodles, though.”
He clapped his hands once like a dramatic host.
“So, folks—get ready for dinner.”
And with that, he swaggered off into the kitchen like a man about to cook something either revolutionary or illegal.
From the couch came a long, miserable sound.
“Auuurrrgghh…”
Jørn slowly slid further down the cushions, tail drooping off the side.
Across the room, Pelle spoke up quietly, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Better give me something that can rot up inside me for the rest of my time.”
Jan looked over.
“…Man, starvation just gave up on you, didn’t it?”
Pelle shrugged faintly.
“I think it fears me now.”
Jan leaned back again, suddenly grinning with dangerous enthusiasm.
“Cat food sounds like it.”
Jørn lifted his head instantly.
“…What.”
Jan pointed toward the kitchen.
“Maybe Øystein gets it.”
Jørn’s ears shot upright in pure offense.
“I AM NOT EATING CAT FOOD.”
From the kitchen came Øystein’s voice.
“YOU’RE NOT THE ONE I’M WORRIED ABOUT.”
A pause.
Then the sound of cabinets opening, something metal clanging, and the suspicious fizz of a soda can.
Jan whispered dramatically,
“We’re gonna die.”
Pelle sat up slightly.
“Hm, if it smells like raw guts again, I might.”
Jørn glanced toward the kitchen, ears twitching nervously.
“…Why does cooking with Øystein feel like a boss fight?”
Jan stretched his arms behind his head and sighed like a commentator watching a sporting event unfold.
“It’s you vs. him, Jørn.”
Jørn narrowed his eyes toward the kitchen like a warrior preparing for battle.
Before he could answer, Pelle spoke again from the couch, slowly, mindfully.
“Battle of bosses,” he murmured.
“…I forgot the last time I’ve heard of it.”
Everyone looked at him.
Jan blinked.
“…That might be the longest sentence you’ve said all week.”
Pelle shrugged faintly.
Jørn, meanwhile, was still staring at the kitchen like it might explode.
He pointed toward the doorway dramatically.
“It’d better be food grade, or I’m eating out searching trash cans.”
Jan grinned immediately.
“I never knew cats could come up with drama.”
Jørn flicked his tail at him.
“You laugh now, but survival instincts are kicking in.”
From the kitchen came a loud CLANG followed by Øystein muttering something suspiciously like “this should work.”
Everyone in the living room went quiet.
Jan slowly leaned toward the others.
“…If smoke starts coming out of there, we run.”
Pelle nodded once.
“Fair.”
Jørn’s ears twitched nervously.
“…Why does that pan sound like it’s arguing with him?”
Sure enough and right on cue, Øystein screamed from the pit of hell he'd just created.
“STOP STICKING TO THE PAN, YOU PEASANT FOOD.”
Jan wheezed.
“Yeah, bro, it's in the cookbook.”
When dinner was finally ready, Øystein walked out of the kitchen with the confidence of a five-star chef who absolutely did not run a five-star kitchen.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he announced, placing plates down one by one. “Sit. Eat. Appreciate culture.”
Somehow he had even arranged the table a little, like a true host.
Everyone sat.
Immediately, their personalities kicked in.
Pelle leaned down and sniffed every inch of his plate with slow, suspicious breaths, like he was making sure Øystein added some deathlike sauce.
Jan, meanwhile, started eating methodically—small things first, then medium, then big—like he was performing a controlled experiment while trying very hard not to look judgmental.
Jørn, however,
Jørn looked like he had just been placed in front of a bomb.
His eyes scanned the plate carefully.
Poorly done mashed potatoes.
Something that might be salmon.
Condiments.
Then—
Tiny lemon slices sitting on the side.
His ears twitched.
He leaned forward cautiously.
Sniff.
Immediately he jerked back.
“Whoa.”
Jan paused mid-bite.
“What?”
Jørn pointed at the lemon like it had personally offended him.
“That thing tryna get me.”
Øystein frowned.
“It’s lemon.”
Jørn leaned closer again, sniffed, and recoiled harder this time, ears flattening.
“Nope. Nope. Something about that is wrong.”
Jan squinted at him.
“…Are you seriously reacting to citrus?”
Pelle quietly pushed the lemon slice further away from Jørn’s side of the table without saying anything.
Jørn visibly relaxed.
Øystein blinked.
“…Did the vocalist just help the cat avoid fruit?”
Jan started laughing again.
“Dude had better not throw out all that's left in stock.”
Jørn groaned and rubbed his face.
“I didn’t sign up for this operating system.”
Øystein leaned back in his chair, studying him with a mischievous grin.
Then he slowly lifted the lemon slice.
And waved it slightly in Jørn’s direction.
Jørn’s ears flattened instantly.
“Øystein.”
The lemon moved closer.
“Øystein.”
Another inch.
“I swear to God—”
Jan was already wheezing.
Pelle quietly took the lemon out of Øystein’s hand and set it back on the table.
“Don’t bully the bassist,” he said calmly.
Øystein sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
Then he leaned back smugly.
“But scientifically speaking, this is the most whimsical dinner we’ve ever had.”
Jan kept chewing like nothing unusual was happening, elbow resting on the table.
“We were not even planning to eat with an attitude,” he said between bites, pointing his fork lazily at Jørn.
“…and bro’s just out here accusing the lemon.”
Jørn shot him a glare but carefully kept his distance from the slice like it might jump him.
Across the table, Øystein shook his head in quiet amusement and started eating his own food much slower now, clearly trying not to choke from laughing earlier.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and muttered with mild pride,
“Seriously, I’m a qualified cook for a poor band.”
Jan looked down at his plate, then back up at him.
“…Qualified by who?”
Øystein pointed at the food.
“By survival rate.”
Pelle took another cautious sniff of his plate before finally taking a bite.
He chewed slowly.
Everyone watched him.
Pelle swallowed.
“Mmm… Edible.”
Øystein raised both hands like he’d just won an award.
“See?”
Jørn finally started eating too, though his tail still twitched occasionally like it didn’t trust the situation.
Jan leaned back in his chair.
“You know what the best part of this whole curse is?”
Jørn didn’t even look up.
“What.”
Jan grinned.
“You went from the scariest bassist in the scene to arguing with fruit at dinner.”
Jørn froze mid-bite.
Øystein started laughing again.
Even Pelle’s mouth twitched slightly.
Jørn sighed deeply.
“…I hate all of you.”
Øystein couldn’t stop giggling, clearly enjoying the chaos he had helped create.
“Except we’re taking good care of you,” he said, pointing his fork toward Jørn. “Remember, show’s in two days. No curse or fur is gonna ruin us financially.”
Jan froze mid-chew.
His eyes widened.
“…What show?”
Pelle looked up slowly, already sounding irritated.
“Huh..?”
Jørn coughed once, thumping his chest lightly.
“I am choking,” he added dryly.
Øystein blinked like this was perfectly normal timing.
He rested his chin on his fingers, elbows on the table, wearing the smug expression of someone who had clearly been planning something for a while.
“Good question,” he said smoothly.
“This time, it’ll all be different.”
Jan pointed his fork at him like an accusation.
“…Whenever you say that, something illegal happens.”
Øystein only smiled wider.
Later that night, the plates were gone, the kitchen smelled of whatever little left they had, and the four of them had migrated back to the living room.
Øystein stood near the table with a notebook, pacing like a director explaining a stage production.
Jørn was already suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“Alright,” Øystein began. “It’s a pop-up show.”
Jan frowned.
“What kind?”
Øystein gestured vaguely.
“Basically like our starting point, in a small place with an underground crowd. No need for an announcement. We just show up, play, destroy the room, leave, and make sure everyone pays.”
Pelle nodded faintly.
“…That part sounds normal.”
Øystein flipped the notebook around.
There were sketches again.
Jørn immediately groaned.
“Oh no.”
Øystein pointed at the poor drawings enthusiastically.
“Visual concept.”
Jan leaned closer.
“Why is Jørn drawn like a catboy idol on stage.”
Øystein spread his arms like the answer was obvious.
“Because we lean into it.”
Jørn sat up straight.
“No.”
Øystein ignored him.
“Picture this, dark stage, low lights, fog. Then mighty Nekobutcher steps out.”
He pointed dramatically at Jørn.
“Ears. Tail. Fangs. Claws on the bass.”
Jørn’s ears flattened instantly.
“Øystein.”
But Øystein kept going, fully committed now.
“You play that new claw tone. The crowd goes insane. No one’s ever seen anything like it.”
Jan rubbed his chin.
“O—kay but that actually sounds cool.”
Jørn looked betrayed.
“You too?!”
Pelle was quiet for a moment, thinking.
Then he spoke calmly.
“The sound is better…”
Jørn dropped back into the couch like he’d just been defeated in court.
“Unbelievable.”
Øystein leaned forward, grin sharp.
“Face it, man. This curse didn’t ruin the band.”
He tapped the notebook.
“Like you once said, it was an upgrade.”
Jørn stared at the poor sketches again.
The drawings showed him on stage being feral, eyes alert, claws on the strings, the crowd reaching toward him.
His tail flicked once.
He sighed.
“…If someone throws a laser pointer on stage, I’m quitting.”
Jan immediately burst out laughing.
Øystein scribbled something in the notebook.
Jørn narrowed his eyes.
“And what did you just write.”
Øystein closed the notebook quickly.
“…Nothing.”
Fast forward two days, and somehow the pop-up show actually happened.
The venue was small, dim, and smelled nothing worse than Helvete. Word had spread in the weirdest way possible in half rumor, half terrible flyers Øystein had drawn with a little help from Pelle.
The crowd was rather confusing.
There were teenagers packed near the stage, screaming like they were about to witness something legendary.
A couple metalhead parents stood in the back with their confused kids who clearly got dragged along. Some older guys with battle jackets watched with crossed arms like judges at a competition.
And then there were a few people who looked suspiciously like groupies, which somehow felt illegal considering the chaos surrounding the band.
Backstage, Jørn peeked through the curtain and groaned.
“…Why does it look like a school field trip.”
Øystein clapped him on the shoulder.
“Because they came to see history.”
The stage had been set up exactly how Jørn demanded—minimal lights, almost nothing hanging around that could distract him. Everyone made sure there were no citrus and too bright colors.
Just darkness.
And the band.
When the first note hit, the room exploded.
Jørn’s claws hit the bass strings and that sharp, snapping tone cut through the air like a blade. Every note sounded meaner, tighter, almost animalistic.
The crowd noticed immediately.
People near the front started shouting.
“YO HE’S GOT CLAWS—”
“IS THAT REAL—”
“DUDE LOOK AT THE TAIL—”
Øystein was grinning like a villain the entire time.
Pelle barely moved on stage as usual, but every time he glanced toward Jørn there was that faint look of quiet approval.
Jan just kept the rhythm steady, occasionally laughing to himself whenever Jørn’s tail knocked into an amp.
And somehow…
It worked.
By the end of the set, the room was wild. Phones out. People screaming. Someone even tried to toss a toy mouse on stage before security kicked them out.
When the final note rang out, the place erupted.
After the show, the crowd swarmed them.
Mostly around Jørn.
Teenagers shoved notebooks forward.
“BRO CAN I GET A PICTURE—”
“DO THE HISS AGAIN—”
“CAN I GET A PAWTOGRAPH??”
Jørn stared at the word like it had just hit him in the head.
“…You people are unbelievable.”
But he still signed.
One kid asked him to scratch the signature into the paper with his claw.
Another asked if the tail was real.
Jan stood nearby laughing the entire time.
Øystein looked like a businessman who had just discovered gold.
And Pelle stood quietly next to Jørn, occasionally nudging people back when they got too close.
Eventually Jørn leaned over toward him, exhausted.
“…I hate that this worked.”
Pelle shrugged.
“You sounded good.”
Jørn blinked.
Then sighed.
“…Don’t say that like it makes me feel better.”
Behind them, Øystein was already counting the cash from the merch table.
He looked up with a massive grin.
“Gentlemen,” he said proudly.
“The cat is paying our rent.”
They stumbled back into the house sometime after midnight, still processing the lingering buzz of a crowd that had been way more enthusiastic than anyone expected.
Øystein dumped a thick stack of crumpled bills onto the table.
It made a very satisfying sound.
Jan whistled.
“Okay. That’s actually disgusting.”
Pelle leaned over the table, staring at the money like it was a strange artifact.
“People paid for this…”
Øystein was already pacing again, excitement barely contained.
“I can’t wait for Japan,” he muttered, half to himself, eyes glowing with business-minded chaos.
Jørn stopped mid-step.
His ears tilted slightly.
“Without even asking about me?!”
There was genuine offense in his voice.
The room went quiet for a second.
Øystein stopped pacing and turned around slowly.
Then he pointed at Jørn like the answer was obvious.
“You’re the main export.”
Jan snorted so hard he almost dropped a beer.
Jørn’s tail flicked aggressively.
“I’m not a product.”
Øystein shrugged.
“Tell that to the people asking for pawtographs.”
Pelle sat down on the couch and watched the argument unfold quietly.
Jørn crossed his arms.
“What if I don’t want to go to Japan.”
Øystein didn’t even hesitate.
“Too late.”
Jørn blinked.
“…What.”
Øystein casually pulled a flyer from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table.
It showed one of his ridiculous, almost cult-like sketches again.
Below it, in huge letters,
“NEKOBUTCHER – LIVE CAT-ASTHROPIC TOUR”
And under that,
“TOKYO – COMING SOON!”
Jan leaned over the table.
“Fool, you printed these already?”
Øystein grinned.
“Three hundred copies.”
Jørn buried his face in his hands.
“I literally live with criminals.”
Pelle quietly reached over and scratched behind Jørn’s ear again, drawing an instant rrrrrrrrrr.
Jan pointed immediately.
“See? The engine starts strong again.”
Jørn groaned loudly into his hands.
“I. Hate. All. Of. You.”