I stomp the ground, and snort, to alert you that you are in my breeding territory.
It doesn't get any more serious than a Rhinocerus about to charge your ass.
I stomp my feet, the dust stirs around my tough skinned feet.
Nostrils flaring, I lower my head. My horn, like some phallic symbol of my potent virility, is the last thing you see as skulls collide and mine remains the victor. You are now a bloody red ragdoll suspended in the air on my mighty horn.
Rhinoceruses don't skin their feet.