The party was a success. Ursula scans the wreckage and shudders.
“Meow,” Sputnik complains arching her back.
“Come to Mama, pretty girl. What’s this on your tail?”
‘You’re dead meat, Urs,’ the scrawled note reads.
Ursula remembers locking the door. Paranoid, she checks again.
But Spider wasn’t here…
~ * ~