The Hardass Rescues a Kitten

The Hardass clumped down the gritty centerline of Downtown’s coldest street. Snow blew into his face and some of it collected in his crags. He hated it for this, and punched each flake as it descended with his innate hairy power.

“Damn snow. Poofy and sparkly. Hate it.” He pushed onward, fantasizing about nuclear ordnance.

“Mister! Hey, mister!” squealed a small child. The small child was obviously distraught.

“What the damn do you want?” grunted the Hardass. The small child was about the size of one of his giant, metal-flaked boots. He leaned down to inspect it. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“My kitten! He’s stuck in a tree!” The small child pointed to a maple tree with a kitten in it.

“Damn,” growled the Hardass. He stomped to the tree, leaving deep treadmarks in the solid asphalt. He got right in the tree’s face. He put his nose right against its bark.

“What’s this all about, eh?” he growled.

The tree said nothing.

“Not a talker, huh? Well then. How about a heaping serving of asskickery?” The Hardass drew his titanium knuckled hand back and slammed it into the tree. The maple rocked, and an ominous deep cracking came from its base.

“Like that? Bastard.”

The tree said nothing.

“Holy naked strippers! You just don’t get it, do you?” the Hardass growled into the tree’s stupid face.

He punched it again, and it fell over. The kitten jumped free, and the small child scooped it up.

“Thanks, mister!” he said, and ran off.

The Hardass saluted him.

“Time for some strippers,” he ground through clenched teeth. He hitched up his steel-cable belt and moved toward the Red Light District like turgid thunder.