AUTHOR'S NOTE: A very inane, nonsensical attempt at humor from yours truly! Featuring the always brilliant Tumble and Pounce, partners in crime but not really! Hope you enjoy.

Also, while you're at it, why not check my chapter fic, The Pariah Heroic? Guaranteed, it's not as nonsensically humorous, but I do believe it's worth your time. Thank you all.

Actual Matters

In the middle of the junkyard was a clearing, and to the side of that clearing was an oven, and in the back of that oven was a den. In this den resided two young toms, one covered in brown patches, and the other with various markings that would be really, really difficult to describe in a way that was as simple as "one covered in brown patches", so for the time being you will just have to imagine two young toms (with one covered in brown patches).

Tumblebrutus clicked an oversized pen on his clipboard, leaning back into his cushion. Tumblebrutus was the tribe psychiatrist. That is, he'd proclaimed himself tribe psychiatrist, not only because it meant free French fries from Jennyanydots for being "oh so responsible", but also because nobody else had thought to claim the title for themselves. But mostly he was in it for the free French fries.

"Now, Pouncival," he said, in his most professional voice. "What the hell are ya in here for?"

Pouncival rested uneasily in the patient's couch, twiddling his thumbs while he thought of what to say.

"Well, uh, mostly because I feel – unappreciated, I guess? It's like: oh, there's Pounce, he's a kitten. He'll just cause all sorts of trouble because he ain't good for anything else. I mean, even my name is Pouncival. It's like I'm doomed to follow what my name says, and, uh, pounce on stuff, and – what're you writing in that clipboard?"

"Your feelings," Tumblebrutus replied. He continued to scrawl on his clipboard. "Go on."

"Okay, um, I just don't think the older cats should be so judging of me, you know? I mean, I'm smart! I know my ABD's. I'm not just some other tom kitten trying to wreak havoc in the junkyard just because he feels like it. Hell, even some of the queen kits are worse than me, and I don't even say a thing against them because that's sexist, Pounce, but, oh, Munkustrap, suddenly you're the expert on gender equality, are you? You'd protect a queen from a potato and – Tumble, are you even listening to me?"

"What?" said the tribe psychiatrist, looking up lazily from his clipboard.

"Gimme that," Pouncival snatched the board from the tribe psychiatrist's hands, and looked at the paper attached to it. "These aren't my feelings, this is a really bad drawing of Victoria!"

Tumblebrutus shrugged. "Hey, she is really pretty."

"Well, yeah… especially when she… dances… wait a minute, that's not what I'm here for, damn it. Tumble, you're a psychiatrist! Now psych me!"

The brown-spotted tom blinked. "Psych you?"

"Um, y'know. Ask me how I'm dealing with my problems, give me advice on what to do about them…"

Tumblebrutus stared at him. "Is that what psychiatrists do?"

"Well, Tumble, what did you think they do?"

"Eat French fries."

"Tumble… Jenny gives free French fries to everyone. So you're not earning anything new when you work as a tribe psychiatrist."

"WHAAAAAT?" the tom-formerly-known-as-the-tribe-psychiatrist yelled in disbelief, furiously throwing his oversized ballpoint pen to the ground.

Pouncival sighed, rising from the couch. "Maybe I should talk about my feelings with someone else."

"Pounce, that's such a girl thing to say."

"I know, right?" Pouncival said. He jumped off the couch and onto the floor. "Let's go do something fun."

And so the tom-formerly-known-as-the-tribe-psychiatrist and the tom with various markings that were really, really difficult to describe walked casually out of the oven to find a new activity to waste their time with.

"Just remember," whispered Pouncival to his friend. "We shouldn't do something stupid and kittenish like the adults think we always do. We have to do something smart and responsible."

Tumblebrutus stared at him incredulously. "But, Pounce, we suck at that."

"I know! Let's climb the highest garbage mountain in the junkyard!" the young tom exclaimed, pointing at the… highest garbage mountain in the junkyard.

"That's not smart and responsi-" But before Tumblebrutus could utter the one reasonable statement of his entire life, Pouncival yanked his arm and dragged him to the desired spot at the foot of the garbage mountain.

"Alright," said Pouncival, placing fists on his hips as he surveyed the height of their new project. "According to my very specific observations… this mountain is tall as crap. We're going to need some sturdy legs to climb this."

"Check," answered Tumblebrutus, excitedly inspecting his limbs. He was beginning to feel thrilled about the climb.

"And according to my extremely sensitive scrutinizing… this garbage mountain is made of garbage. So we must employ the use of claws to dig in and get a good grip."

"Check!" said Tumblebrutus as he held his claws up. Now he was practically jumping with enthusiasm.

"And finally, what we are about to do is really dangerous and has got a ton of risks, so we'll need some mountain-climbing gear and helmets!"

"Not check, but who cares?"

"I don't! Let's go!"

Pouncival and Tumblebrutus eagerly took hold of pieces of junk and hoisted themselves up the very tall mountain, preparing for the long, treacherous climb.

The first third of it was easy. It was like any other day of climbing hazardous twenty-feet-tall piles of garbage for these two bold and adventurous young toms.

The second third was not as easy. As the peak of the mountain narrowed, the junk that comprised it grew smaller and more compact, making for less bumps and points to grab onto. Still, the young toms bravely and stupidly persevered, believing that their mission would result in the beautiful reward of – well, nothing really; they were just climbing the mountain for the hell of it.

As Pouncival, panting, exhaustedly reached the last and highest third of the garbage mountain, he stopped to rest for a while, and looked to the view of the junkyard he had from there. He admired how pretty a junkyard could look from the top. He looked to the main clearing that was free of trash, and paused to wonder why there was a giant tiger's face painted on it for no apparent reason.

He was distracted, however, when Victoria, resident pure-white-queen of the tribe, stepped in from nowhere and began to dance one of her graceful, gratuitously intricate solos, as she loved to do on peaceful days where the sun was shining and a couple of toms were climbing a mountain of garbage.

"Wow," Pouncival grinned widely, watching the pretty young queen dance from above. This caused him to lose his footing, and the tom slipped from his spot and came crashing through the air.

Luckily, his wrist was caught by his loyal, brown-spotted friend.

"Pounce!" cried Tumblebrutus, who had also been intently watching Victoria while planning his next portrait of her, until the blur of his falling companion distracted him. Clinging desperately to the junk of the mountain, he held also onto Pouncival's hand. "Pounce, I'll never let go! I'll – why is there a giant tiger painted on the ground?"

"TUMBLE!" Pouncival yelled, hanging from his friend's grip. "Don't you dare get distracted! Don't let go, or else I'll fall! I'll fall to the ground! And get squashed! Squashed! LIKE PLAY-DOH!"

Tumblebrutus stared at him in horror. "Plato got squashed?"

"NO, YOU IDIOT! SQUASHED LIKE PLAY-DOH!"

"Oh!" the tom chuckled. "That makes much more sense!" So Tumblebrutus heroically let go of the garbage mountain to pull his friend up with both arms.

"I did it, Pounce!" he beamed. "I saved you!"

"Tumble…" Pouncival looked at him. "Think about what you just did."

The brown-spotted tom blinked at him, clueless.

Then he remembered. He'd let go of the garbage mountain.

"AAAAW DAAAAAANG IIIIII-"

"TUMBLE YOU IDIOOOOOOO-"

The two shrieking toms fell to their very painful and squashy death.

Well, not really. Here the narrator must interfere with this absurd storyline and remind the baffled audience that cats, being the magnificent creatures they are, always land on their feet.

However, this pair of toms, being rather clumsy cats, missed this requirement by quite a bit and landed on their tails instead.

"Oh, gosh…" Pouncival groaned, rubbing the sore small of his back. "Did we… did we land on something soft?"

"We did…" replied Tumblebrutus in awe, looking at the smooth red pillows they were on. "I think we landed on Jenny's sitting spot."

Sure enough, a quick glance around assured the toms that they had landed where the car hood was supposed to be, except someone had been clairvoyantly kind enough to open it to air out Jennyanydot's favorite cushion to sit on. The toms rejoiced that they were still very much alive, and still very much able to climb more garbage mountains in the future.

"Well, I guess the adults do make sense some of the time," Pouncival smiled, stretching a little. "We need to do more smart and responsible things."

"Pounce, look," Tumblebrutus gasped, as he gently lifted one of the pillows. Underneath it was the lid of the car trunk, and it seemed to contain something. "Jenny wouldn't be mad at us, would she?"

"Mad at us? For sitting in what is officially her sitting spot, and for opening her stuff and violating her privacy?" Pouncival stared at the young tom, wide-eyed. "Of course not!"

"Well, I don't know if that was sarcasm or not, but I'm opening it!" said Tumblebrutus brightly, and lifted the lid.

The toms gasped. They saw a deep, gold-like yellow, with warmth emanating deliciously from the treasure.

"Could it be.."

"Is it actually…"

They grinned widely, filled with joy.

"FRENCH FRIES!"

And so the tom-formerly-known-as-the-tribe-psychiatrist and the tom with various markings that were really, really difficult to describe eagerly feasted on their new discovery that was actually Jennyanydots' stash of French fries meant to be given to the entire tribe.

The End.