A man could not get any sleep in a tree in Westside. Sirens, yelling of gangs, gunfire, fires, screams, howling of the trees as they struggled to take root, constant chattering from bats and birds about the lack of food.
Casey thought about renting a place, or finding somewhere else to go, but Westside needed him most. So he spent most of his nights walking around town, fighting gang members and trying to keep some semblance of quiet in the neighborhood. He avoided the Cobra Lords, and spent most of his time in the park with the Loonies and other Maniacs, among the trees and fountains there.
One night, as he came out of an all-night donut shop, he heard pitiful cries. He followed the mewling to a trash can, where, inside, was a trash bag. He opened the bag and inside were four gray and white kittens.
His blood boiled. Whoever had done this was going to pay a price, and he was going to make sure they did. He scooped up the kittens. Three squirmed in his hand, but the last one was lifeless, not breathing, suffocated by his litter mates.
They were going to pay dearly.
First, Casey had to bring the kittens somewhere safe. He found a jacket in a trash bin, a jacket in need of repair and a bit too small, and placed the kittens in the deep pockets while he bought milk for them.
In the convenience store, the clerk saw one kitten poke its head out. “Oh, he’s so cute!”
“Want one? I have three. I found them in a trash can.”
“Oh, that’s horrible! I’d love to take one, but I’m working, and–”
“When do you get off work?”
“Ten. Will you come back?”
“Of course, I will.”
Full and satiated, feeling safe, they settled into the deep pockets of his coat and slept. He picked one up and woke it up, and spoke to it. It spoke back to him in the gibberish of sleepy babies, so he looked into its eyes. There, he could see the reflection of himself, of how he looked in the kitten’s eyes – a shining beacon of light and love. He prodded him a little, and the kitten balked, scared now. Casey saw the flash of the person, the bag, felt the terror of the kittens as they were jostled then dumped. Felt the anguish that they they missed their mother.
“You almost died, little one,” he said in the language of animals, and he dropped him back into his pocket. “But the gods have saved you. I will call you Miracle.”
He named them all: Miracle, Lucky, and Runt for the smallest one. He went back to the convenience store and the clerk brought out someone else. “My manager wants one too,” she said.
Casey told them their names, and Miracle and Lucky went with two happy and proud owners. Runt stayed behind with Casey. Runt got renamed Lucky Two (he thought the name put them off on him) and Casey let him settle in.
Meanwhile, he hung around the donut shop, waiting to see the flash of the man who had dumped them.
After a couple of days, a group of men in a low-rider BMW with chrome wheels and a bass system that rattled teeth, drove up to the donut shop. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but he did see the man who got out of the passenger side.
He was grinning, and he glanced for a moment at the trash can before passing his eyes over Casey, who stared at him intently. This, this was the man.
The music was deafening when he opened the door, and now he closed it, so all he could hear was the bass. Casey moved from his seat at the counter. The man noticed him staring, and also saw him moving. The man put his hand in the pocket of his jacket.
Casey intercepted him at the doorway, and shoved him out at the same time the man drew a pistol from his pocket. It was a big gun, big enough to put a hole as big as a house through Casey, the counter, and the clerk behind it. Casey shoved the man hard enough so that he fell back against the nearest car, and the gun went flying.
People got out of the car, as he could tell by the sudden noise of the music. Casey ignored them. People screamed – they were probably pulling guns on him.
“What the fuck?”
“You are to die.”
“Fuck you, pal,” he said with a grin of gold teeth.
Gunfire erupted all around him, shattering the windows behind him and peppering him with bullets. He put his hand over the pocket where the kitten lay, sleeping and oblivious to what was going on around him. The bullets didn’t bounce off as much as they swayed away from that area, going into his body or around him entirely.
When the gunfire ended, Casey was still standing, bloody, full of holes, but still standing.
“My turn,” Casey said, and punched the man in the throat.
The bones in the man’s windpipe snapped and broke, and he tried to breathe. He turned to the men as the wounds healed. He pointed to the man, “This is what happens to those who commit crimes against The Mother,” he said. “Now, get out.”
They watched their compatriot fall gasping to the ground, holding onto his neck. One at a time, they looked at Casey. Coldly, dispassionately, they got into the car and left the man to die.
Casey waited until the man was firmly dead before pulling out the kitten. “I have avenged your litter mate,” he said, and the kitten purred in its sleep.
He searched the man and found a wad of cash on him. He brought it inside to the donut shop and said, “For the damages.”
He looked around, glass everywhere, and the sirens showed that the cops were coming. He thought it best to leave, because he didn’t want to have to give up the kitten.
It ended up, that the kitten found a good home with a woman in Westside who had just lost her old cat two weeks before. She kept the name of Lucky.
((Based on a true story.))