25/07/2025
"They’re Harvesting My Toes: A Pug’s Account of The Great Betrayal"
As narrated by Banksy, Professional Snack Investigator and Martyr of the Paw
It started like any normal day.
I was promised a ride. I got in the car. I was lied to.
We arrive at the Facility of Betrayal. I recognize the smell.
Fake chicken. Suspicion. Bleach.
At first, I’m calm. The receptionist calls me handsome. I agree. I flirt.
But then we go behind the door. The air shifts. My snack sense tingles. Something is wrong.
Then I see it. The silver guillotine.
The Toe Collector has returned.
They butter me up—literally—with peanut paste. Fools. I know distraction when I taste it.
They reach for my paw.
This is it, I think. They're taking the precious stubs. For science. Or soup.
I scream to warn the others.
No one comes.
I begin evasive maneuvers. I spin. I flop. I become a sentient pudding.
They try to grip me—I become oil.
The Toe Collector clips one nail. I die. Briefly.
I see a light. It smells like bacon. I return.
Upon my resurrection, I initiate Operation Possum Mode. I go limp. Completely unresponsive.
They try to reposition me—I slide off the table like uncooked dough.
Then I activate Code Zoomie: a desperate, thrashing sidewinder wiggle that propels me toward the trash can.
They scramble. I fart. The upper hand is mine.
They regroup. Reinforcements arrive. One of them brings a towel—the ceremonial cloth of shame.
They burrito me like a breakfast wrap with legs. I attempt a jailbreak using only my neck.
It fails.
They cradle me like I’m precious cargo, but I know. I know. They are resetting the trap.
I make direct eye contact with the ceiling vent. If any gods are watching, now is the time.
Another clip. I summon the scent glands of my ancestors.
Everyone gags.
I smile. Let the record show: I did not go quietly.
Eventually, they stop the harvest.
I am released, limp and noble.
I exit the room like a veteran of battle. War-torn. Crumb-starved. Smelling faintly of despair.
It is unclear if all my toes remain. I haven’t done a full inventory. I fear the worst.
The only consolation?
Mom has a special chewy waiting in the car. I accept it without breaking eye contact.
Let the healing begin.
At home, I report to Stylo.
He doesn’t believe me.
He will. One day.
