By the time Lula screeched her fifteenth “SHE’S GOT TO GO!!”, the parolees had already settled in like they bought tickets. One of them cracked open another Busch Light and muttered, “Hell, this better than cable.”

But the cats?

The cats were assembling like a furry United Nations of Chaos.

First to appear — padding forward with the gravity of a man who charges for his presence — was the Large, Fluffy Tuxedo Lord.

Tail like a feather boa.

Chest fluffed like he’s wearing a velvet robe.

Fur so plush it has its own ZIP code.

He sat beside Spine — silver‑haired, calm, wearing her Kindness Is My Religion tee — and with one slow, devastating blink declared the meeting in session.

Then came the rest of the Goblin Council:

Mohawk, the spiky tabby, fur ridge standing straight up like he just lost a bar fight with static electricity.

The One‑Eyed Grey General, perched above, glaring with his single working eye — the eye that has seen the rise and fall of empires, and also the inside of a dryer.

The babies, tumbling in like popcorn kernels that escaped the bag.

The pretty ones, posing like porch‑sitting supermodels who judge everyone.

The tuxedo lord, anchoring the left like a bouncer at a honky‑tonk.

Lula, gripping her ivy‑covered railing, puffed her Virginia Slims like she was trying to smoke the entire argument into submission.

“SHE’S GOT TO GO!!”

Silence fell.

The Tuxedo Lord blinked.

Mohawk fluffed his ridge.

The babies froze mid‑chaos.

The pretty ones rolled their eyes in unison.

And the One‑Eyed General, without moving a whisker, muttered under his breath:

“F’er.”

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just a tiny, gravelly, one‑eyed verdict from a creature who has absolutely had it.

The parolees choked on their beer.

Spine smirked.

Lula heard it — she KNOWS she heard it — but she can’t prove it.

The mailbox gleamed like it had just been sworn in as a witness.

By sundown, the Goblin Court had spoken: