Ask any truth seeker, meme peddler, or GIF archeologist worth their salt about feline mythology and they’ll chat your ear off about fine bois, chonks, and absolute units. But only someone truly depraved will tell you the twisted tale of Quincey the ill-fated Queen of Chonktober.

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.

All was quiet in the Musick household save for a mechanical hum emanating from the attic. A keen observer watching from the across street might have noticed jet black clumps of material gently tumbling out of the chimney onto fresh, powdery snow.

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."

Fading off to sleep she was startled by the sound of her ringer. Who could be calling this late? Bleary-eyed she answered the phone. She heard a frantic voice on the other end, but it was one that she recognized. She couldn't believe the story. She rushed to the police station.

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.

Karen flipped idly through her alphabetized record collection, settling quickly on the B’s as she so often did. She’d met the most incredible person this morning and there was only one crooner who would understand. She chose the most well-worn album and gently removed the sleeve.

The phone rang, loud and reverberating, the way only rotary phones do. Becky raced to pick it up only to be beaten by Valsecchi, who'd already been sitting at her desk since the early morning hours, sleuthing her latest models. "Becky and Valsecchi," she said.

Three stubby sheep with fire red wool convened atop a majestic mountain at daybreak just as they had many times before. As they began their hushed incantations storm clouds rushed in and a nebulous being emerged—a swirling mass of wind and wool known to all sheep kind: Sheepnado.

Many moons ago, before the beginning of time itself, an ageless being was thrust onto the cosmic stage. A swirling mass—of youth, hair, FIFA, and recreational boating—asserted its rightful place in the universe. Before Eve, there was Adam.

Light poured through the canopy of the verdant glen, dancing upon the heads of Teri, Tabby, and Tim—the elder squirrels of the Acorn Clan. They came together on this crisp spring morning in order to discuss an issue of solemn significance.