perfidy

A long time ago in a universe far, far away, a man named Erwin Schroedinger gave us the story of a cat. Schroedinger's Cat is a haunting tale of death and loss and, in particular, the nature of uncertainty. It's so sad, really. You see, there's this cat, who's alive and well. He's happy and well-fed. Life isn't too bad. Then he changes owners. The new owner is a bad man, and the bad man thinks he doesn't really need food, or water, or anything of the things that regular cats need to live and love and do more than survive.

The bad man puts the cat in a box. It's an iron box, heavy lid, no way to look inside. In fact, this box is never designed to be opened, ever...you can't see what's going on in there. Before the lid was shut, though, the bad man had a pang in his stomach. At first he thought it was a crappy egg, but it turned out to be his heart, maybe two sizes too small.

Still being a bad man, though, he gathered up another cat and threw it in the box with the first one, tightly shut the lid, and found the nasty pang departed. Then he welded the lid shut, put a padlock on it, wrapped the box in plastic, and bricked it into cubby hole behind a wall in his guest house, smoothing out the plaster in a pleasing manner. He centered a cross on the wall, and decided the cat's name was Fortunato. The other cat could be Fortunato 2.

After some time went by, Fortunato asked Fortunato 2 to marry him.

In a fit of macabre quantum pique, the immoral collapsing probability wavefront reached out into the universe and....

Did nothing, because nobody saw it; it never existed.