It was a lonely life he led, but that was alright, he preferred it that way. It was safer, and cozier. Less annoyance. Sure, it would have been nice to receive a "Happy Birthday" some year or another, but given how nobody really even knew his true name, that didn't seem likely.
So, this year, like every year, he holed himself up at home in his apartment. The fire blazed in the fireplace, and he was waiting for the two special deliveries he'd ordered to arrive, lounging about meantime in a silk robe and pajamas, a glass of wine in hand to be leisurely sipped from, Stan Getz playing softly on the radio. He took comfort in knowing that even in this relaxed state, he was an intimidating sight to behold; the flickering of the fire cast shadows across his scarred face that would have made any person, victim or ally, anxiously tense.
The doorbell rang. Ah, it was one of his orders. He set the wine glass down and stood, straightened his robe, and walked to the door. Behind it was a young Chinese girl with a bag. "Delivery for Mr. Doe?" she said, holding up the bag.
"Yes, thank you, my dear," he said calmly, taking it. It was then that the girl looked up and started at his appearance. Ignoring her reaction, he paid her (tipping well) and shut the door, leaving her babbling something like "thank you for your order" or "do you need change". Whatever it was they always said.
Well, here was his birthday dinner. There was only one occasion he allowed himself to eat such food (if it could be called that) as Chinese takeout, and that was his birthday. He prepared himself a plate, using china much too fancy for its subject matter, because that was all he really had in his home, and sat down to eat.
It was delicious, in the way Twinkies are delicious if you crave something ridiculously fake and unhealthy, and you want it quickly and effortlessly. And he was enjoying it. He enjoyed all three bites he managed to take before the doorbell rang again.
Once again he stood and pulled his robe around him, then went to the door. "Sign here," said the postal worker immediately when the door opened and shoved the machine into his hands. He shrugged, signing and handing it back to the worker, who handed him a kennel. He took it inside and shut the door.
"Welcome to your new home, Olivia," he said. Dinner could wait a few minutes. He set the kennel in a corner of his apartment where he had set up a small cat bed, food, water, some toys, a litter box, and a scratching post. "I do hope you appreciate what I had to go through to convince the landlord to accept you. You must be as quiet as you can here, you understand? He and I made an agreement; you don't alert the other tenants to your existence, and you may stay. And as for his part of the bargain, his trachea will remain intact. It seems fair, doesn't it, little one?"
He knelt in front of the kennel and opened it, letting the little tabby, his birthday present to himself, wander out. She curiously meowed and sat on her little tush, taking in her suroundings. "I'll let you be so you can adjust to your new environment," he promised her, giving her a few strokes and then going back to finish his dinner. Olivia the tabby continued wandering as he ate, and just as he was cracking open his fortune cookie, she found some toys to play with and cuddle into her bed with.
"What could my fortune be this time?" he mused. Deft fingers pulled the paper from the edible shell.
IT IS VERY POSSIBLE THAT YOU WILL ACHIEVE GREATNESS IN YOUR LIFETIME.
Shelly de Killer laughed heartily. He sat back and read the fortune over a few times. "Do you hear that, Olivia?" he said, and lifted his glass of Viognier to the kitten as if toasting her. "The best is yet to come!"