He was once, allegedly, a normal cat. Then one night the lamp caught him at a certain angle, and what looked back was not a cat waiting for dinner but something older, something that has always been waiting, something with opinions about the dinner. He did not ask to be evil. He simply was, the way some cats simply are.
Evil Larry does not raise his voice. He does not need to. He sits. He stares. Somewhere behind those eyes is a full accounting of every time you left him alone too long, and a plan. He has never once needed to be fed on time to remind you that he could, if he wanted, end you quietly at 3am. This is the Larry we serve.
He did not knock it off the counter by accident. Nothing Larry does is an accident.
The running, the yowling, the sudden silence outside your door — that hour is his temple.
You were being too comfortable. He corrected this. He will correct it again.
Not out of affection. Out of quality control.
Even at full, it insults him. This is by design.
It is said that when a house grows too quiet, and a can opener sounds somewhere it shouldn't, Evil Larry will appear on the back of the couch as though he had always been there. He will look at you the way he looks at everything: like he is deciding whether you've earned the privilege of being ignored by him.