Kitten

     Kitten was a no nonsense kind of Skeith. His job guarding the National Neopian suited him perfectly. It was really quite simple: keep out the thieves. Kitten did have to admit that the task would have been much more difficult if the thieves didn't always wear their thieving outfits. But, alas, there they were every time. Green bodysuit? Gone. Face mask? Buh bye. Ski caps and ropes? Kitten wants you to vacate the premises immediately, so you should probably leave now.

     After his shift ended, Kitten would strut home, eat five Ultimate Burgers, then prank call his neighbors. Which was to say he would call them to growl, in his normal voice, that something in their house was broken or on fire. It was quite routine and practically expected after the first three days, but the order he called in was always a little different. That's right, Kitten is calling, again, to keep you on your toes.

     Seven or so minutes of straight hysterical laughter was then in order. Kitten would continue on until there were tears in his eyes and an ache about his lungs before trudging into his room to go to sleep, punching his pillow as he slipped under the covers. That's right, pillow: don't forget who's boss.

     Kitten was boss, especially in his dreams. He dreamt each night of a vast field where he stood fighting enemy hordes that poured down from over the hills. They came armored and on Nightsteeds and with weaponry of all types. Kitten, bare fisted and ready, knocked them down with fists that sent out sonic blasts on impact. Kitten would fight through the night, arms and legs flailing and punching empty air around his bed as he slept. The Skeith would awaken each morning to a coating of sweat and the burn of a good work out.

     Multitasking, Kitten style.

     Kitten would roll out of bed, landing in a fighting stance, then stretch in the breeze of his open window. Gotta have some proper ventilation after a work out, of course. Then he would pour himself a bowl of whatever cereal he had around and eat nosily with his mouth open. Then he would put on some music from his favorite band, the Blue Kacheek Group, and punch and high kick around his living room.

     Because that's how you start a day.

     Then it was time for a trip up to High Street. Kitten would strut past the shops, pointing at various Neopians and staring them down. He would continue the act until they had turned away, run down the street, and disappeared from view. While he never said a word or changed how he pointed and stared, he often did it for a number of various reasons:

     "You'd better stop staring at me."

     "You made a face at me in first grade and I'm not gonna forget it."

     "I like your shoes."

     Once he had made enough trips up and down the street to stare and point, which often occurred around late morning, he would drop in to a shop for a snack before heading to work. Which is to say he would tell the shopkeeper what he wanted and then flex his arms as if to say, "fo' free." Sometimes he got it for free, sometimes he didn't. Whatever the outcome, he would snatch up the snack from the counter and leave the store nodding and walking backwards so as not to break eye contact.

     Never give up the power struggle.

     Inevitably someone would ask him why his name was "Kitten," to which Kitten would invariably respond,

     "Why is there a fist hitting your face?"

     There never was, in fact, a fist hitting their face at that moment, but they all quickly realized the question was rhetorical and that any response other than turning away and walking quickly would make it their very fortune. Or lack there of. Life was tops when it was Kitten's.

     Until one day when there was a Draphly.

     Fluttery, blue, and smaller than most Neopian eyes could make out, the Draphly was possibly the cutest and most harmless Petpetpet ever known. While others made the Petpets itch and twitch, the Draphly simply fluttered its two pairs of iridescent wings like a soft whisper through fur. The light humming it made as it flew was almost melodic, like a gentle laugh almost too quiet to hear.

     And it scared the living Rainbow Dung out of Kitten. Terrified. Downright petrified in a panicked paralysis, which was difficult enough for Kitten to convey when all he could say in its presence was "puh-puh-puh-puh."

     It didn't sneak up on him. It didn't startle him unexpectedly. It had slipped into his room through the window on a gentle morning breeze, and from the second Kitten saw it coming he was done for. It simply was, and Kitten simply was absolutely frightened.

     And so he ran. He charged past it toward the window and with a barreling leap over the ledge he was outside and thank Fyora it was a one-story house and he was sprinting across the lawn hollering at the top of his lungs.

     Which confused the Draphly; it had only wanted to bid the large Skeith good morning, even if it was too small for him to hear it speaking. Perhaps, thought the tiny fluttering thing, perhaps it had been misunderstood. Always a wisher of universal understanding, the Draphly flew into friendly pursuit of our formerly stalwart acquaintance. Who, upon looking back and seeing the tiny speck coming behind him, increased in pitch from a holler to a shriek as he flailed his way down the street.

     About the time Kitten reached High Street, however, he realized exactly what he was doing and exactly how it appeared. No, this would not do; all of his pointing and glaring and staring and nodding and flexing would be for naught.

     So Kitten stopped running. It took every ounce of his being to remain at his quickly paced stroll instead of bolting past the many shoppers and browsers who meandered past him. Kitten's skin absolutely crawled from his scalp to his toes, screaming anxiety to his mind and its desire to get away. Get away and get away fast and get away far. He snapped his head around every five seconds to see if the Draphly was still behind him. Literally. He would count. One, two, three, four, CHECK! One, two, three, four, CHECK!

     A few passersby began to stare, and Kitten noticed.

     "I'M WORKING OUT!!" he roared at them. They tittered and fled, but Kitten had more important things to worry about than two weak peons who didn't get his magnificence.

     Like the tiny, happy Draphly that followed him quietly on a summer's breeze.

     Kitten's vision was beginning to buzz as the terror saturated his very being. It was coming after him. Oh Fyora, it was coming after him. He began to stroll faster until he was at a sprint. Oh no, Pets were staring. Okay, okay, Kitten fumbled with his panic-stricken mind, game face. Game face this. So he did. Kitten was now sprinting across the marketplace with a look of anger and determination on his face. Good cover, Kitten.

     But if his skin could have leapt away from him and never return, it would have, such was his terror. And then, just around the corner, gleamed the beautiful sight that Kitten would know was his salvation: The National Neopian. Kitten could seek his refuge and, with his guarding expertise, keep that little menace from ever getting in.

     Kitten flung the doors open, jumped in, and slammed his back against them hard to shut them. A resounding bang shot through the bank, drawing the eyes of every citizen who stood in line to deposit their Neopoints.

     "IT'S A BANK ROBBER!" screamed a small Acara in one of those lines.

     "UGH, NO I'M NOT; I'M NOT EVEN WEARING ANY STRIPES!" But Kitten's assurance fell on deaf ears while screaming mouths brought each Neopian to their knees, hands over their heads and belongings scattered haphazardly around them.

     Meanwhile, the Draphly, still outside, was distracted by something glittering beneath the Money Tree and flew away. Its wings hummed lightly through the air.

     But pandemonium was breaking, shattering, and being crushed to smithereens inside the bank. Guards, alerted of an intruder, charged forward from an inner office and swarmed the bank lobby. Alas, as soon as they saw big, blue, glowering Kitten, they sighed and laughed and encouraged the patrons to get to their feet and go about their business.

     "Don't worry, everyone, it's just Kitten."

     "JUST KITTEN?!" Kitten's fear was entirely forgotten in his thirsty pit of rage that anyone would refer to him as "just" Kitten. Kitten grounded his feet, flexed his muscles, balled his fists, and roared at the top of his lungs so that all would hear him and would continue to hear him as their ears rang for the next week and a half.

     "I AM THE KITTEN AND YOU WILL NEVER FORGET THAT, DO YOU DUMB LOSERS GET IT OR NOT? NO, NEVERMIND, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR DUMB ANSWERS, OKAY?! I AM THE STRONGEST, MOST FEARSOME SKEITH AND IF ANY OF YOU EVER FORGET THAT I WILL STARE YOU DOWN AND MAKE YOU REMEMBER, YOU SQUISHY-FACED LOSERS!!"

     Kitten-style.

The End