It was a slow, gray Tuesday afternoon when Hoomin stumbled home from work, weary and hungry. He dropped his bag with a thud, kicked off his shoes, and shuffled to the kitchen to make himself a long-awaited treat: a perfectly stacked chicken sandwich. The toast was warm, the mayo just right, and the chicken—ah, the chicken was seasoned to perfection.

He settled on the sofa, the plate in hand, letting the comforting hum of the apartment soothe his nerves. But just as he lifted the sandwich to his mouth, a sharp, sudden sting jolted through his stomach.

“Oof,” he grunted, placing the sandwich back on the plate.

Out of the corner of his eye—through the mirror on the door—he spotted Lohe, sitting unusually straight, eyes glowing like twin emerald lasers.

Then came the sound. A deep, rumbling chant.

“Cluck cluck goes the tasty meat,

Give it up or face defeat!

Feathers fall and spirits rise,

Offer now the chicken prize!”

The voice was loud, echoing through the room, but no one else was there. His eyes darted back to the cats—Lohe still staring, Benno now joining him, tails twitching in eerie synchrony.

Hoomin burst out laughing. “Alright, alright!” he chuckled, still clutching his aching belly. He opened the sandwich and carefully pulled out the juicy chicken, placing it ceremoniously onto two tiny saucers. The cats approached, not with the usual scramble, but with a regal grace—as if they’d just won a war.

Lohe blinked slowly. Benno gave a nod. Hoomin felt oddly… lighter.

As he sat back and munched on what remained of his sandwich—now just toasted bread and lettuce—he couldn’t help but wonder:

What else can they do with this voodoo stuff?

Could they make me dance in the buff?

Could they find my missing sock?

Or hypnotize the neighbor’s dog?

Can they read my thoughts at night?

Control my dreams, give me a fright?

He eyed the cats again.

Lohe licked his paw with perfect nonchalance.

Benno stretched luxuriously and stared straight into Hoomin’s soul.

Hoomin gulped. This was no ordinary tuesday.