A smirk plays across his lips as he regards his next conquest. A month of petty crimes has prepared him for this most glorious challenge, and his eagerness to meet it is only tempered by his desire to have this moment witnessed by the largest audience possible. This may be, after all, his swansong.


He watches placidly as they file in, glasses clinking, voices chattering, and each and every one of them oblivious to the show they're about to experience. He rehearses the moment in his head, visualizes each movement as it must surely unfold. He glances across at his usual partner; she is standing before the fireplace, her eyes cautioning him to reconsider this risky venture. He squares his shoulders in resolute defiance and makes his initial run.


No one notices the swiftly moving ball of orange fur, but everyone sees the brightly lit and beribboned tree take its inevitable tumble toward the floor as the kitten squeals and grips the falling angel. When the fir hits the carpet, he scampers, the angel dangling from his teeth, his small body dodging rolling glass balls and the feet of the party guests who are now rushing between the tree and the kitchen or consoling the weeping hostess. He hides beneath his master's bed and chews at the wings of his glittering prize. No swansong this time. He plans his next conquest.


This entry was written in response to the Week Eight prompt at therealljidol. No kittens were harmed in the writing of this post.