Chapter 8: The Cat Treat Apocalypse

Chapter 8: The Cat Treat Apocalypse

The checkout line at the Tractor Supply Co. fell silent as Jedidiah Stone approached. He wasn't pushing a cart; he was piloting a bright orange, flat-topped U-boat dolly, the kind used for hauling pallets. It was laden with a precarious ziggurat of supplies that represented his grand, final gambit.

Four massive spools of high-tensile wire. Five contractor-packs of steel T-posts, clanking with every small movement. Boxes of insulators, a new post-driver still in its greasy plastic sheath, a ten-gallon drum of hydraulic fluid, and six 50-pound bags of Producer’s Pride for Buster. It was a battleship of agricultural supplies, and Jedidiah maneuvered it to Cheyenne’s register with the grim determination of a general leading a cavalry charge.

Cheyenne’s bored expression dissolved, replaced by a look of sheer awe. “Whoa, Mr. Stone. You buyin’ out the whole store?”

“Just what I need,” Jedidiah grunted, his eyes fixed on her screen. This was it. The culmination of his plan. The physical, tangible solution to his ethereal problem.

The scanning process was an epic undertaking. Each heavy item had to be wrestled and contorted to meet the laser. The beeps from her scanner were not a gentle rhythm but a series of triumphant, percussive blasts. With each one, Jedidiah felt another brick being laid in his wall of victory. The ghost in his account could play its silly games with gorillas and alpacas, but it couldn't argue with a two-thousand-dollar receipt.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last item was scanned. Cheyenne whistled softly. “Okay… your total is… two thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars, and fifty-eight cents.”

Jedidiah didn’t flinch. He pulled out his worn checkbook—a weapon from a more civilized age—and carefully wrote out the amount. He slid it across the counter. “Run it,” he said, his voice steady. “And make sure my points go on there. Double.”

Cheyenne processed the check. Her fingers tapped on the screen. “Alrighty… loyalty account is [email protected]… and… transaction complete.” She looked up, her eyes wide. “Holy cow, Mr. Stone. You just earned… 4,825 points.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Jedidiah’s face. It was done. More than enough. He’d won.

---

Six time zones away, Art’s monitor flashed. He had been staring at the account dashboard for the better part of an hour, a statue of patient malice. The points balance had read 38 for so long it seemed etched into the screen.

Then, it happened.

It wasn't a trickle. It was a dam break. The number 38 vanished, replaced by a blur of updating digits. Art watched, his heart hammering with the thrill of the hunt, as the number rocketed upwards, settling on a figure of glorious, beautiful absurdity.

Total Loyalty Points: 4,863.

The purchase was made. The tidal wave had hit.

Jedidiah, at this very moment, would be pocketing his receipt. He’d be feeling the smug satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. He was probably already imagining the look on Cheyenne’s face when he immediately used his mountain of points for a massive discount on his next purchase. He was likely a thirty-second walk from the customer service desk.

The race was on.

Art’s posture changed. He leaned forward, his back straight, his right hand gripping his mouse, his left hovering over the keyboard. The lethargic prankster was gone, replaced by the focused, high-performance gamer. This was no different from a last-second objective capture in a competitive shooter. It was all about speed, precision, and overwhelming force.

His finger clicked. The ‘Redeem Points’ page loaded.

His eyes scanned, ignoring Esmeralda’s heated water bucket and Bartholomew’s gravel. He found his target.

Voucher: One (1) 3lb Bag of Purr-fect Catch Cat Treats, Salmon Flavor - 200 points.

He clicked. Redeem. A confirmation box appeared. He clicked again. The motion was a fluid, practiced double-tap.

The points total dropped. 4,663.

He didn’t pause to admire his work. His finger was a blur of motion, a hummingbird’s wing.

Click-click. 4,463. Click-click. 4,263. Click-click. 4,063.

The staccato rattle of the mouse clicks was the only sound in the silent flat. His muscle memory, forged in a thousand digital battlegrounds, took over. He wasn't thinking; he was executing. He saw the points balance not as a number, but as an enemy health bar he had to drain to zero before the timer ran out. The page reloaded sluggishly with each redemption, the Tractor Supply servers groaning under the strain of his focused assault. Each second of load time was a second Jedidiah was getting closer to claiming his prize.

Click-click. 3,063. He was a machine. A cybernetic harvester turning a field of loyalty points into a silo of cat food. Click-click. 2,063. He could feel a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. His focus narrowed to a tiny point, encompassing only the button, the cursor, and the ever-dwindling number. Click-click. 1,063. He was in the home stretch. He imagined Jedidiah nodding to another customer, taking his sweet, unsuspecting time.

Click-click. 863. Click-click. 663. Click-click. 463. Click-click. 263.

One more. The final execution. He lined up the cursor perfectly.

Click-click.

The page refreshed. The new balance glowed on the screen.

Total Loyalty Points: 63.

He had done it. In less than a minute, he had converted 4,800 points into a truly apocalyptic quantity of feline snacks. He quickly did the math. Twenty-four vouchers. Twenty-four three-pound bags of salmon-flavored cat treats.

Victory wasn’t enough. Victory needed a monument.

With steady hands, he navigated back to the pet profile page. He looked at the digital menagerie, his bizarre, beloved creations. Nigel. Bartholomew. Esmeralda. They deserved a proper farewell. He clicked ‘Edit’ next to Nigel’s profile. He went to the ‘Special Dietary Needs / Notes’ section, the same digital canvas where this whole masterpiece began. He deleted the old text about morning sickness. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he typed the final, epic, and utterly insane epitaph to his game.

Nigel’s babies are due. They are very hungry.

He read it one last time, a laugh bubbling in his chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated, victorious madness. It was perfect. It was the closing line of a very, very strange play.

Art hit ‘Save’.

Then, he moved his cursor to the top right corner of the screen. He clicked the ‘Logout’ button. The folksy green and yellow dashboard dissolved, replaced by the generic login screen.

He closed the browser tab.

The game was over. He had won. He leaned back in his chair, the adrenaline slowly draining away, leaving behind the strange, hollow echo of total victory. His flat was silent again, the only sound the gentle hum of his server. Outside, the world went on, oblivious. But in a small corner of the internet, in a fortress of code he had made his own, he had just orchestrated a masterpiece of petty, glorious chaos.