Harry, the man who eats cats, is more than what he seems. Though society regards him as the worst sort of petty villain, out for free dinner and sick thrills, Harry sees himself as a woefully misunderstood individual, marginalized in an increasingly pet-allergy-hostile world and eager to discover possible superpowers.
It all began as most things don't: with a three-day trip to the ER spent recovering in an oxygen bubble. He was three and remembers getting a sticker for being a patient. Before that, he was blue, literally, found on the 2nd floor of his parents' friends' condo, barely breathing,...
OK. OK then. That's it? Really? Just- no. No. Honestly. The goal is to steal dinner? Come on now. I, the man who eats cats, can do a lot better than that. So much better. It's not like- I don't know- I'm pressed for a job or anything. No, not at all. Of course not. Why would I be? I'm the Cat-Eater. Of course I haven't been stuck on alley cats for the past few months- all skin and bones- far from the days where I ate the cats of the Tsars. They had respected me. You know what? I'm...
Harry didn't want to meet Sally...unless he was a cat. Harry loved cats but not in your "here kitty, kitty" kinda way. No, Harry liked cats as his main course. All of that urban legand about chinese food being chock full of cat intrigued Harry. He hung around the locla chinese joint waiting to confirm if it was true. Indeed cats checked in and never checked out...like a hotel California but much worse. Stealing a cat meal was a piece a cake with the new discovery. His dine and dash was complete with a simple request for combo number 7...