It is a natural and unavoidable phenomenon that all sprints—no matter their scope nor intensity—come to an end. We, the agile, dash through the same valley, toward the same goal, carrying the same torch. None of us as keenly aware of this fact as our commander-in-beef, Brigor.

Admiral Baldwin finished his early morning tea and toast before pacing the deck of the S.S. Lean Coffee collecting his thoughts. He did this most days, often before sunrise. Today his thoughts leapt to the land mass looming on the horizon known to most as Falafel Island.

Deep off the coast, in the treacherous hills of Retrium, a close-knit band of developers, designers, and product owners huddled around a crackling fire in the dead of night. As was tradition, each member came prepared with criticisms and praise necessary to improve the tribe.

Cookie duster, dirt squirrel, lip luggage, nose neighbor, face lace, mouth brow, or simply the prosaic stache. While they go by many names, not all mustaches are created equal. This is the tale of a particular soup strainer that changed the world—and the man it rode in on.

Sit back in your coziest chair, in front of your warmest hearth, and prepare yourself for this most ghoulish tale of one feline's harrowing journey from chonk to fine boi—cause oh lawd it's comin'.

"Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me," said the Godfrather. "But until that day, consider this justice a gift on my daughter's wedding day. A fravor, if you will."

Fall had come early to Belleville. Julian swept the leaves from his stoop and flipped the sign adorning his bodega from CLOSED to OPEN. He hadn't made it to the deli counter by the time a shadowy figure burst through the door. "How fresh is your chicken salad?" she asked gravely.