Kitten and The Don

Chapter 1: Kitten in A Box

Don G

There were times when Don G appreciates silence. Tonight was one of those time. His headache began to thrum as he filled his tumbler with two fingers of Macallan's finest. He was glad for his own lack of hair, or skin at that matter, for he'd be pulling his hair out with its intensity, as if his skull was going to burst in matter of minutes. With shaky hands, he quickly drowned out whatever noises was left in his conscious with the single malt. Human's alcohol helps nothing with recovering one's energy, but it works well enough to snuff out his tired mind from worrying what he couldn't control. Still, his hand grabbed for what's left of the day's paperwork on the desk top.

No rest for the wicked, I supposed.

Papers to be signed, done. Papers to be burned, burned. Only a bit of route checking for alternatives, in case the police had sniffed out their regular tracks. And then tomorrow's shipments should be safe along the way. Don G leaned back onto his workchair, the old leather creaked softly under his weight. A quiet night. He grabbed his last cigar out of the pocket, cut and lit it. Sleep would not come easily, and so he remedied with a cup warm coffee, throwing what's left from the tumbler in it. It was night like these that the Don took up a bit of readings, a nostalgic act. He grabbed the day's newspaper labeled 'Sunday Funnies' with enthusiastic little smilies, and moved to a leather couch, worn with use. The smell of old leather warmed the room as the man scanned down the first column.

Hmm. Murders, Theif, lost cat. So much for lightening the mood.

A puff of cigar, and no sooner than a moment - a call. He'd left it alone until it ran into its usual leave-a-message.

"Boss! We're under attack, the shipment escap-"

The double door to his private workroom burst open, one door hanging on its last hinge, groaning loudly as if protesting. He looked up from his newspaper, raising a single browbone he uttered an 'oh, hello.'

The two occupants of the room stared at one another for a moment before his intruder straightened, the act bathing them in gentle moonlight. In their hand was a large stick, a size of a small log. The curl from cigar's smoke covered them both in gentle fog.

"Hi." said the mysterious visitor, voice quiet and rough with disuse despite their roughish appearance.

They waited no later and threw the log-stick at the Don, narrowly missing his already cracked skull. Acting quickly, they charged, attempting to grab at the Don, no doubt, and wrestled him to the ground. Ever the careless gentleman, Don G grabbed his coffee cup and moved sideways, twisting so he landed on his back and slided one foot under the mysterious human mid-air, effectively removing them from the couch before they could touch it. The human, not so much as grumbled landed harshly on the ground and rolled, grabbing for their log-stick along the way now snapped in the middle from the harsh throw. Before they could turn and do some damage with a half broken stick, however, they were snapped quickly from behind - the Don pulling at their suspender. Losing the last bit of balance, they fell and laid flat on the ground huffing for a breath. The Don grabbing on to their soul and forcing them to lay still on the ground.

"You'd have to excuse me, the old couch was a special order Italian leather. The man who made it is dead. It'd be most unfortunate if something were to happen to it." Said he.

The Human and The Skeleton stared at each other for another long moment. Sheen sweat covered the human's face, but they never seize eye contact. Nor did the Don, as he took a long sip of the now-cold coffee and set it back on the table. Staring at them from the back of the leather couch, he took a puff of cigar and take in the scene as it unfolded to him. A human, shoulder length brown hair, a rather pleasant and yet monotonous face wearing white shirt, old pants and a pair of purple suspenders. He could tell they were frustrated, he could feel it emanating from their otherwise expressionless face. Perhaps it was the tick at the corner of their mouth. They were very capable, to this the Don knew. Not seemingly overly muscular, but they held...powerful determination.

Interesting.

"Good try, kitten."

Not knowing their name, his mind supplied him with his previous findings on the day's paper 'Murders, Theif, Lost Cat' he congratulate himself in another humorless pun. The human silently growled at the nickname, it came out as a low purr.

Just like a kitten.

"How 'bout I make you a deal?" He supplied calmly. Another puff from his cigar.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-