Tank’s Worst Gift Ever
Tank’s Worst Gift Ever
There were a lot of reasons to spend Burden’s Moon alone. Contrary to popular belief and what the media’s holiday industrial complex liked to push, it wasn’t an inherently magical time of year or a mandatory activity.
For people like Tank, it was best avoided at all costs.
He’d seen enough fires when he fought on the front lines, and all the noise and singing and fireworks were a sensory nightmare for a man like him.
Not to mention the pressure that came with gift-giving, as well as the pity invites to feasts from well-meaning folks who knew a little too much about his situation.
So he didn’t have a clan. Big whoop. It was more convenient than anything else. He didn’t have anyone to make excuses to every year.
He could do exactly as he liked, which was usually working in his garage until the sound of fireworks became too much. Then he’d shotgun half a bottle of whiskey, put his ear plugs in, and pass out in his nest until noon the next day.
So far, things were going exactly to plan.
Rock music thumped from the speakers in his garage, drowning out most of the noise of his small town’s celebrations, as he lay on his back beneath his neighbor’s truck. The roller’s wheels squeaked as he pushed himself a few inches, trying to get a better angle on a stubborn bolt.
“Fuck me, Tim, when was the last time you changed the oil on this thing?” he muttered.
It was a common misconception that ranchers and farmers took better care of their vehicles than city folk. The truth was that they knew just enough to run the poor mechanical beasts into the ground. Tank hadn’t been out of work for more than a day at a time in Montague since he set up shop.
There was always a tractor on its last legs that needed services right just now or a truck that’d somehow managed to run with its engine block held together by shoelaces and duct tape. Unlike in the city, his services were always in demand.
Tim wasn’t the worst offender in town. In fact, he normally did his damndest to avoid bringing his trucks in for servicing because he thought he was a pretty decent self-trained mechanic.
But he’d noticed the truck making the oddest noise that morning and couldn’t seem to diagnose the issue no matter how hard he tried, so the gift of a Burden’s Moon distraction had been delivered to Tank’s garage just in time.
The roller squeaked again as Tank struggled to get the bolt to move. Gritting his teeth, he tried putting some real muscle behind it. Planting his boots firmly on the concrete floor and quickly locking the roller’s wheels, he yanked hard.
The roller squeaked again, louder this time, just when the bolt finally began to give. Except he hadn’t moved. His feet were firmly fixed to the ground and the roller was locked.
Tank froze.
Below the thumping music and the sporadic, hair-raising blasts of fireworks outside, there was nothing.
Then, almost too faint to be heard, there was another squeak.
“Aw, fuck,” he sighed, dropping his wrench. Rubbing his eyes with one grimy hand, he listened to yet another squeak that sounded suspiciously like a meow.
You tell people to check their fuckin’ cars during the winter and they never do, he silently grumbled.
He’d lost track of the number of cats, squirrels, birds, and even racoons he’d pulled out of engines and wheel wells.
He’d certainly done enough to recognise the sound of a kitten when he heard one.
It took the better part of two hours and a stiff drink later, but eventually he spied the big yellow eyes of a kitten lost amongst the tubes and valves of a greasy engine.
“All right,” he growled, shoving his hand down into the toasty little hole the feline had taken refuge in.
“You don’t belong there. You want to get burned up or something?
You do that and I’ll be the one scraping your toasted fur out. ”
Tiny claws and even smaller fangs gave a good fight, but they were no match for his orcish hand. Pinching the scruff of the kitten’s neck, Tank hoisted the stowaway out with as much care as he could under the circumstances.
No bigger than the size of his palm, with a grease-smeared white coat and one brown patch over its right eye, the thing couldn’t have been cuter if it tried. And it didn’t.
A mighty hiss curled its whole tiny body and showed off pale pink gums as it attempted to assert its dominance over the orc holding it captive.
“Don’t give me that,” Tank growled. “I saved your ass. Do you know what could’ve—”
An explosion rattled the garage as another firework, this one far bigger than the others, lit up the sky over his home. Tank flinched and swore, his heart pounding as old instincts screamed.
Dangling from his hand, the kitten curled into a tight ball and stared at him with wide, panicked eyes.
“You don’t like ‘em either, do you?” Tank shook his head and drew the kitten close to his chest. Baby claws sank into his shirt and pricked his skin, but it didn’t hurt much. If anything, the tiny bit of discomfort helped ground him as he stomped away from the partially disassembled trunk.
When another firework screamed through the air, he cupped the shivering kitten’s back and hurried into the house. “It’ll be better in here,” he promised them both.
It was certainly warmer, and the fireworks weren’t quite so loud in the semi-underground structure of his homestead. Hands shaking, he found himself compulsively petting the feral little grease ball who clung to him.
Can’t leave him all covered in oil, Tank thought. No one will take him if he’s dirty.
And since he certainly didn’t want a cat, he figured he ought to give the kitten a little bit of a spit shine. He’d call around to see if anyone needed a mouser in the morning, he decided, heading for the kitchen sink.
Tank expected more hissing and biting as he lowered the kitten into a soapy bath of warm water, but that’s not what he got.
Perhaps the fireworks had put the fear of Loft in him, or maybe he’d just run out of steam.
Either way, the kitten stared up at Tank with the saddest golden eyes as the orc clumsily scrubbed dish soap into his fur.
Pitiful complaints rose from the soaked kitten, tugging at long-disused heartstrings. “I know,” Tank muttered. “It’s almost over. How’s about a can of tuna after this, huh?”
The kitten had no idea what he said, obviously, but it didn’t seem to matter. As soon as Tank got him thoroughly rinsed and wrapped in a kitchen towel, the little creature began purring like a finely-tuned engine.
Setting the kitten in front of the cast iron fireplace with an open can of tuna, as promised, Tank eased into his favorite seat with a sigh. He’d fetched himself a drink, too, but he barely touched it as he watched the damp kitten attempt to eat too-big mouthfuls of tuna and purr at the same time.
Worried that the kitten would eat himself sick, Tank made an executive decision and removed the can when he’d finished half.
This was met with loud complaints, but the kitten must not have been too upset because the moment Tank retook his seat, the cat sprang onto the couch and clawed his way onto the orc’s shoulder.
“That’s all right, I guess,” he mumbled, scratching the cat behind one triangle-shaped ear. “S’long as you don’t think you’re staying, you know. I’m not a cat person.”
A rattling purr and the press of a cold nose on his neck was his only response.
Tank sighed and leaned into the cushions, his claws idling sifting through drying fur.
His drink sat forgotten on the side table as he said, “Guess you should have a name. Might take a while to find someone to take a baby mouser, and I can’t just call you cat. ”
Thumbing one silken ear, he offered, “How’s Grease? You know, for that spot you’ve got.”
The cat didn’t reply. Those harmless little claws began to knead Tank’s shoulder, though, which he took as a positive sign. “That’s settled, then,” he announced, lifting up the collar of his flannel to tuck around the little furball. “But you’re not staying, remember? Don’t get too comfortable.”
Despite the noise outside and the memories that threatened to grip him by the throat, Tank found his eyelids lowering as he made himself comfortable on the couch.
Eventually, he settled on it long-ways, his boots discarded, and Grease curled up on his chest. He never seemed to stop purring, and Tank never seemed to stop petting, and before they both knew it, they were asleep.
Well… maybe I could use a mouser, Tank thought, drifting off.