On that Tisch is the center. Pinwheeled about is the rest.

THE DIRECTOR: “The anus.”

The assemblage noisily pans along the creature’s surface, now stopping at what looks to it like a closed mouth.

THE DIRECTOR: “Oh, motherfucking sweet Jesus fucking STUPID SONOFABITCH!! THE A!! NOOOS!! Keep the fucking thing centered on the asshole, and it's a close-up, goddammit, fill the damn frame!!!”

The assemblage noisily re-centers and re-focuses, is silent again. On that Tisch is the center. The Center, now the common vertex of four identical virtual quadrants on screen. Surrounding it, atop the table, and ranging in hue from light-cinnamon to creamy yellow and glistening, is the P.F.C.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

And then the Director cocks his head to the right, as if whispering to an invisible assistant, and says, “Keep on the circum...”

In a split second: the affector is resolute in the assumption that the word the Director had started was “circumference,” and even though “circumstances,” initially started to crystallize in your mind, “circumference” quickly replaces it, as, you reckon, “circumference” is, after all, probably more akin conceptually to the round anal “ring” – excuse the double redundancy - of which interest the Director did, after all, make quite vocal, more akin to that anyway than “circumstances,” and so agree with the affector (though neither of you is aware of being in agreement) that “circumference” is the word the Director was in the process of saying the instant he was so brutally cut off.

(Note: The affector's understanding of the inherent continuity of toroidals equalizes hierarchically the creature's polar opposites. The affector would tie any mention of “ring” in this context rather to a description of the entire cat-body itself.)