Day 314 – Squaws

Inspired by David O’Doherty… and currently pending being written. 53 minutes to go!

My hands hurt slightly.

word count: 1365

Inspired by David O’Doherty’s nightmarish Boxing Day, 2011. (Minute’s silence please).

The beast mocked David and lavished in all the malcontent its tiny tail could muster in the dust of the area of the floor just beneath the window where the hoover rarely ventured except when his mother was due to visit. A solitary beer can, empty as the wastelands of Greenland, lay between David and the monster, acting as the stationary tumbleweed in the slow-motion showdown between the two mighty characters whose failure to act on impulse had resulted in their current sorry state of a nomadic, contentious fiend versus the drunken middle aged attempted-recluse with a penchant for waving his arms vigorously around in front of a small white magic box in nothing but his pants.

The freeze-frame melted away as quickly as ice on fire; one scurried away and the other screamed the heavens down, furling into the comforting memory of his mother’s arms whilst father fetched the cheese and traps. But no! David had had enough; there was no room for this rodent of fear in this place! It would have to go! There was no time to call Daddy! Mummy would not be here for hugs no matter how hard he yelled. No other action could be called for: the building had to go.

Mentally he fetched the canisters of Castrol and loaded them into a Supasoaka, firing around like a commando and launching himself around the house like a ninja. Still fermenting this plan in his head, he would then strike a match with his irresistibly stubbly beard and cast it into the petrol like the One Ring into the fires of Mt. Doom and then – like Stallone or Arnie – he’d rocket himself out of the window and be propelled away from the exploding house by his own sheer style.

The mouse scratched: he yelled and jumped up a further step, banging his head on the low ceiling and knocking the sensible brain cells into alignment: his elemental levels of his sophisticatedly cool plan were not fabricated of logic or common sense but riddled with the familiarly sticky feeling of spilt beer. He could not torch this place to rid the world of this re-incarnation of Hitler: it was his own house!

To the computer he went, logging in took as long as usual as he one-finger-pressed the password, search terms and selected the website. Screeds and screeds of information on how to best maim the common house mouse: napalm was strangely not in the top ten. At first there was the nicey-nice suggestions involving human traps and flowers and sending them little gift cards for the local cheesemonger before plying them with petitions for three months and finally offering them an eviction notice that would first need to be legally sought after by PETA themselves. Then came the stuff that made him slap his hands together and rub them energetically.

To the shops he ran like a school boy on the first day of the summer holidays. He even slipped into a skip for several embarrassing seconds. The shop was lined with the ideal horrors of a mouse war. Peanut butter, cheese, chocolate and tiny little pointy spikes of death: he took the lot. The fabled bible of Mouse-Maiming listed plenty of Weapons of Mass Destruction, but credited the top lure for a mouse above all others to be chocolate and peanut butter.
It was half way down the Jam aisle that David had a vision – a prophet to the great Crusade he was. Nutella glowed on the shelves like the Holy Grail. That, he wiped a tear from his eye as he realised the brilliance of his epiphany, was a God amongst bait.

At home he lined no less than seventeen mouse-traps up in his living room doorway. A thick layer of landmines they were, no mouse was agile enough to crawl through there with all limbs intact. But by half past two in the afternoon he was not convinced. What if they could crawl along the ceiling like that baby from Trainspotting? What if they had tiny little helicopters or had vindictively discovered wormhole travel just to spite him? He lived alone! He was single, childless, middle age and still not the world champion at that blasted computer game that only four people in the world had ever played. His boxers had not been changed in two days! He could not remember life before mulled wine and candy-cane! Was there a time before that cheery music played forth from the radio? He needed help with this pandemic! He needed Phalanax Roman soldiers, cavalry, artillery guns and nuclear deterrents! He needed something he could not be….

The man he had so desperately called from the phone book appeared within half an hour of his drippingly distressed conversation. He stood in the doorway of David’s front door, sunlight from the cloudless sky splashing onto his bald head, chin chiselled like a Greek God and arms made from pure titanium it seemed.
“You have a problem,” he groaned a Barry-White-esque baritone.
David merely pointed at the array of death traps he had spread with peanut butter and nutella and set out across the living room floor. The man stepped in so as to better assess the situation. David, basking in the man’s immensely solid shadow, swooned at the possibility of a mouse-free house by morning dawn.
The man lay green poison in little traps in the living room and kitchen, under the stairs and near the bathroom pipes. He packed up his belongings and prepared to leave.
“Well sir, they may eat my poison, they may be speared by all seventeen of your tiny spikes, but there is one thing that I am certain of, sir: by morning you will have bodies. Many bodies.”
He left. David crept upstairs to bed, fearful of what night-terrors the day’s event would bring.

Morning came as if an airstrike in world war two; the much needed relief of an intense and unrelenting battle. All night he could not pee. All night he lay with the duvet hugging his feet tightly in fear of a tiny furry beast scurrying in and out of his toes.

He descended the stairs. There, the mouse version of Jesus on the cross, was his tiny frail body on the Nutella smeared spear. There was this little creature’s life – snuffed out by a middle aged man with unclean boxers and a man of greasy hair.

The moment of death cast revelation into David’s sorrowful, murderous eyes. He had done this. He had done this. He had killed this poor innocent and simply hungry creature. He was a brother! A son, perhaps a father too? The mad mirrored reflection of life’s twisting knife caught his eye: this was the moment to turn; the moment to change; the moment to rise and shine! This torment would define the rest of his life! No more take outs! No more depressing solitary nights-in alone! Damn that computer game, begone! Damn that Indian take out, no more! From now on he would be sociable! He would strive for better things! He would shave! He would wash! He would buy new boxers!
But what of this little mouse? Where would his body be laid to rest? No grave for him? No sarcophagus? No. This little mouse deserved more – he deserved more than Margaret Thatcher would hopefully never get. He deserved a day of mourning: a national holiday, a million women in black dresses and black veils carrying black roses and a thousand tiny teardrops.
David gathered up the corpse and put him in a matchstick box. He jabbed his feet into a pair of slippers and ventured out to somewhere he had only heard existed in fairy tales – like the bi-annual council letter or occasionally on the news: the recycling bin.
This furry little prophet had more to give and David had stolen him from the world too soon, but now he was going to make sure the world had him… in plastic cups, when wiping their arse with toilet paper and those pointless little cardboard hot drinks sleeves that no one ever appreciates.

~ by S.G. Mark on August 16, 2012.

2 Responses to “Day 314 – Squaws”

  1. Try getting some sleep

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