My human, in their endless quest to accessorize their loud, wheeled contraptions, has acquired this object. It is, apparently, a hard-shelled bag called an "Epessa" that straps to the front of that dreadful electric scooter. Its purpose is to hold their metallic bits and bobs—chargers, tools, and other items of zero interest to a feline of my stature. While its intended function is a profound bore, the rigid, waterproof EVA shell does present a certain... potential. It could serve as a decent percussion instrument when batted firmly, or perhaps a curiously-shaped headrest, assuming it is not defiled by being attached to that ghastly outdoor machine. Mostly, it seems like a monument to my human's baffling hobbies, one that occupies valuable floor space that could be used for sunbeams.
It showed up on a Tuesday, dumped unceremoniously on the living room rug. Black, hard-shelled, no name on the door. It had the look of a case that held something important, or at least something secret. I’d been working the Catnip Smuggling ring for weeks, and my first thought was that this was a drop. A new player in my territory. I gave it a wide berth, observing from the high ground of the sofa arm, my tail twitching like a seismograph needle. The human called it a "scooter bag." A flimsy alibi if I'd ever heard one.
My investigation began under the cover of the human’s dinner preparations. I descended from the couch and began a slow, deliberate perimeter check. The shell was cold, impersonal, and gave nothing away. EVA, the dame on the box called it. Tough stuff. It smelled faintly of a factory, a place with no sunbeams and no salmon pâté. I nudged it with my nose. It slid a few inches on the hardwood, a hollow, unsatisfying sound. The zipper was its weak spot, a metallic grin holding its secrets tight. I hooked a claw into the pull tab, but it was a two-hand job, and I was fresh out of thumbs. This "Epessa" character played for keeps.
My big break came when the human, sated and witless, sat down to watch their glowing rectangle. I decided to lean on him. I employed my signature technique: the Ankle Rub of Undeniable Influence, followed by a purr so deep it vibrates the very floorboards. He looked down, mistaking my interrogation for affection. The sap. I led him with a flick of my head toward the case, then looked from it back to him, my eyes wide with manufactured innocence. "Oh, you want to see what's in the bag, Pete?" he cooed, falling right into my trap.
He unzipped the grin, and I peered into the belly of the beast, ready to catalogue the evidence. Was it contraband? Stolen jewels? At the very least, a high-value bird feather? The contents were an insult to my intelligence. A wrench. A tangled nest of black cords. A small, sad-looking cloth. It wasn't a drop box for a crime syndicate; it was a toolbox for a fool's hobby. It was a bag full of profound, soul-crushing disappointment. I turned my back on it without a second glance, my tail a definitive statement of dismissal. Some cases are better left cold, especially when the solution is this monumentally dull.
