*STÆN'S SUPER AMAZING ULTRA SHIT HOUSE* ----- The incessant sound of dripping water was beginning to bother Stæn intensely. It especially wasn't welcome at this particular moment, when there were quite a few other unpleasant things occupying most of the space in the feline's mind. The man sitting across from him, officially 'superior' and clearly proud of it, finally broke the silence, sighing. "Well, you can leave now," the man said. Stæn instantly jumped out of his chair, as much as his tight Professional Business Attire suit would allow, and almost ran for the door. As he continued onward to the lifts on the other end of the floor layout, he surveyed the grid of workers which he had been part of until a few minutes ago. He realised in that moment that he would almost certainly never see this place again, likely never meet most of these people whose faces and names he managed to remember again, and, hopefully, would never let himself be part of such a cruel and painful machine again. Empowered by the adrenaline of quitting, it wasn't until Stæn had left the building and walked about a kilometre that he thought about what would come next. His thought process over the next while went approximately thus: - Stæn had given up his only source of income. - He had no other means of paying for food, shelter, utilities, etc. - Really, Stæn had no reasonable methods of making money anymore. His office job had crushed his soul into pieces, but even that was certainly closer to a good job than anything else. - (Although at least in a lot of those worse jobs they didn't have to wear such uncomfortable clothes...) - Stæn was going to run out of money soon, and he would inevitably become homeless. (Not good.) - (His suit was really fucking uncomfortable. In an attempt to seem 'formal' and 'presentable' it had to be almost as tight as it could theoretically be, and it always felt like he was being touched and poked) - Stæn was not cut out for this terrible world, but here he was regardless. He continued spiralling down this path of existential dread and terror and anger and sadness as he approached his apartment. But at the tail end of it, as he unlocked his door, his thoughts went in a different direction: - If this terrible world was not going to accommodate for Stæn, he wasn't going to accommodate for it either. And as Stæn slammed his apartment door behind him, he decided to let go of the invisible structures binding him, and he decided to let go of his bowels. He leaned against the door as he allowed feces and urine to stream out of him into his suit, dampening and tightening it. As he soiled his formal clothes he stretched out as much as he could, tearing holes and popping buttons off in the process. He slid down the side of the wall until he was sitting, happily squelching in his poop and covering himself and his clothes in urine. For a good while he just basked in the glory of his own mess. A flurry of thoughts whizzed through the tuxedo cat's (haha) mind. He promised himself that from that day forwards, he would live for squalor, filth, dirt and trash. He would never clean himself again, he would turn himself into the most filthy, disgusting specimen ever to exist. But that would take time, of course. For now, Stæn had some ''cleaning up'' to do. ----- Stæn's bathroom was in quite the sorry state. The smashed door leaned off its remaining hinge, only partially obscuring what was once the sink. The pile of urine-covered porcelain rubble was hard to distinguish from everything else in the bathroom, which had suffered the same fate: a room of jagged edges, broken glass and Stæn's bodily fluids painted on the ground and walls. And the cat sat spread out on his sofa, the curtains behind him torn to shreds, the sofa itself tattered and holed, and the feline's business suit soiled. His penis stuck erect out of his warm, wet pants, as he continuously piss and shit all over himself. Yesterday, he had gone out and bought as much greasy, messy or otherwise appealing food as he could carry. Much of it was already gone; Stæn had poured and smeared it all over himself. He stroked his fecal, pasta-sauce covered, Michæl Donal Corporation™ Mystery Michæl White Secret Sauce™ coated penis, and came for the 5th time that day all over his shirt. He shoved another Michæl Donal Borgar into his gaping maw, some of it not even entering his mouth, and much that did falling out as he chewed as grossly as he could, followed by a Military Coup Cola™ haphazardly thown into his mouth. Even less of that made it in his mouth, and his shirt was thus stained further, covered in cola and Mystery Sauce and whipped cream and pasta sauce and chewed up Borgar and semen and mucus and smegma and puke and urine and feces and saliva. As undescribably happy as Stæn was, he still felt like everything was still too... nice. Too clean. He had so many more ideas, so much more disgusting and indescribable, and he couldn't really do them in this environment. Even destroyed, this place still felt a bit too nice (much of this was probably because he had lived there and knew the place before he had destroyed it.) And he was definitely going to be evicted fairly quickly now... Stæn revelled in his stink as he brainstormed. He wanted truly unmaintained, unstoppable squalor. He wanted to be classified as a olfactohazard! He needed more reeking filth! MORE STENCH!! ----- Nobody was really sure why One Goramarsc Plaza was there. Pretty much everyone agreed, though, that the developers gave up on it when they realised that their new 'plaza' was in the middle of an incredibly polluted industrial area. So they left the building as a skeleton, and it became a not-really-remarkable decaying old abandoned building in the Worst Place In The World. So far, not exactly an extraordinary story (developers in Goramarsc truly are incompetent,) but one day, a very dirty tuxedo cat in a ruined, torn, stained suit walked by. Stæn had preempively left his apartment; he did not feel like getting into some sort of landlord argument. He had quickly ruled out living on the streets; it was clearly not an enjoyable experience and he would probably be forced to move around a lot, which would prevent him from crafting a truly disgusting environment. His plan quickly became to find some old abandoned building and become a squatter. One Goramarsc Plaza, covered in graffiti, the windows smashed, debris scattered on the sidewalk in front of it, caught Stæn's eye. The building had one of those rotating entrances, but its glass separators had long since been broken and glass shards lay strewn around the ground. Walking carefully, Stæn made his way in, not bothering to try moving the likely rusted contraption and simply walking through the frame. In front of him now was a grand space, which seemed to be a mall except there were no stores or people or paint or lights or anything. Stæn grew more excited as he carefully explored. He could see himself in some forgotten corner of this building, wading around in his own shit, eating and jerking off and pissing everywhere, the only light a smashed up LED haphazardly sticky-taped to the ceiling (maybe he could figure out some gross glue substance?), stacks of (stolen!) unhealthy, greasy, rotting, stale food buried in the manure until they were eventually picked up and messily devoured. The 'rooms' connected to this large area, though, felt too big. He wanted to be cramped, so he kept looking deeper and deeper into the structure. Eventually he came across a lone, single door off a small hidden hallway. It looked like some kind of office; next to the door was a window revealing the entirety of the fairly small room, and inside was a wooden desk and some toppled over cabinets. Perfect! --- In a small, cramped office in a forgotten corner of an abandoned mall, a large black-and-white cat wearing a destroyed, soiled suit lay sleeping on a torn, stinking couch. The room's entire floor space had been taken by body fluids and paper bags; Stæn had spent pretty much all the money he had on fast food. The window beside the front door had been slightly stained by a special filth-covered moisture, residue from the brown liquid, like acid rain, outlined droplets falling down into the pool of fecal liquid pooling on the windowsill. Some other parts of the window, though, had been purposefully smeared with feces, which completely obscured it. Stæn thought that if, for some reason, he ever wanted to obscure his wonderful abode from view, he could paint it over completely. That thought had given rise to a new thought, which became the project Stæn had spent the day working on. Using some makeshift tools, he had mashed some of his feces into a creamy paste, and had started using it as paint for his walls. He had only gotten to one part of a single wall, which was situated above where Stæn lay. The stench had helped him sleep. The wooden desk was basically gone at this point. The first thing Stæn had done when deciding to make this room his home was to smash it, and the broken wood was still buried below mounds of fast food bags, plastic bottles, wrappers, and copious amounts of urine and feces. The cabinets had been stood back up, and were used to store even more. Stæn's penis was covered in snot, which he had used as lube (and a little snack!) before falling asleep. Stæn liked snot; he felt a bit cheated that he had ever been convinced not to eat it. It was so convenient, so runny, so tasty, it was useful as lube... He had rectified that situation now. Mucus continued to drip down from his nose as he snored, some of it bubbling or flowing into his mouth. Stæn dreamt. He dreamt that he kneeled in a white void. Directly above him, amazing, impossible amounts of mucus flowed from a large pipe, covering him. He opened his mouth, tasting it and letting it all inside him. He wanted to be covered in it, a covering as inalienable as his fur or his skin. But there were so many other lovely substances too, and as he thought about this the snot in the tube depleted, replaced with a torrent of vomit splashing down. Stæn found vomit to be wonderful, with its own variable character, and often with regurgitated bits of goopy mush which Stæn could eat again. A wonderful dream. When he woke up, he ate a mushy, fecal burger. Despite being covered in urine, the bread was almost solid. After a good, sloppy, snot-lubed burgerfucking, he shoved it in his mouth. It tasted like burger, and snot, and cum, and urine, and feces. Stæn shit himself with happiness: he had finally found his purpose.