I am King Pizza Cat.
I turn up my magnificently handsome nose at Felix Sensations Sauce Surprise with pretend vegetables turned into mush. I spit out Whiskas Treats which are as sawdust to me. I will have nothing to do with pseudo milk that smells of pee. Pizza is my food, it is the food of kings.
I am Mountain Cat, my paws have padded up slopes, I have climbed the high peaks in search of my destiny. I found my destiny. It is to be adored. It is to be master of all I survey. It is to eat pizza.
Here on the rock, high above the towns and villages of Northern Italy, I have established my kingdom. Here, among the tables and chairs, I spend each day, greeting my subjects as they arrive from across the snow, with their bug eyes and planked feet, seeking Prince Beer and Princess Vin Chaud, calling their names as they slip and slide across the floor of my palace, scattering snow and ice as they go.
They bring me their offerings of pizza, which they place on their tables, inviting me to eat, worshiping and adoring me with their strange language ‘geddownoffthereyouscruffymoggy’. But I eat my fill, for I am King Pizza Cat.