#6 in the third series of Mouse stories. Read the others here.
Mouse in a Quandary
“We are Norwegian Woods!”
Okay, so my Scandinavian radar was off by a country or two, although the guy really does look like Alexander Skarsgård. Yum.
I bite into a piece of Stilton as I watch and listen.
“We intend no one any harm,” Mr. Blondie Alex-lookalike says.
“You’re holding us captive. That’s harm,” says a robust gentleman whose face is extremely red. I’m afraid he’s one exclaim from heart failure. I hope he settles down.
“What’s Norwegian Woods?” Tom asks. Good for you, trying to get intel.
Meanwhile, I google. An environmental group known for high profile kidnappings to make a point. No one is ever harmed. That’s good. I feel relieved.
I take a bite of Old Amsterdam.
They garner approval through their casual means of intervention. What in the hell does that mean? Who writes this stuff? I check the website. Oh, it’s the official Norwegian Woods website. They have twitter, Facebook and Instagram too. Cool.
“We are environmentalists trying desperately to keep this world safe,” Mr. Alex-lookalike says.
“By kidnapping?” Mr. Robust gentleman says. Oh, please just simmer down. His face is even redder.
I feel in a bit of a quandary. I like environmental causes. I think too many people are far too lax about them as if supporting them means giving up their man-card or such. Crap, I’m going to have to make a decision soon. I am running out of cheese and wine.
For a moment, I think hard and then realize that I am under the cheese table. I could just try to sneak some. I could bide time that way. Try to make a sensible decision without hunger setting in. I lick my finger and press down on the crumbs on my plate and then lick them off my finger. Sigh.
I wonder if these guys are vegans? I support vegetarians and vegans, but vegans don’t support cheese eating mice, I’m definitely certain of that.
I turn and scoot to the back of the table and slowly lift the cloth. I am sitting on my haunches filling my plate, when I feel the barrel of a gun against my temple. This feels like too much déjà vu. I look up at the good looking blonde man and smile.
“I’m here for the cheese,” I say.
He jerks his gun up. I guess that means I’m supposed to stand. I smile instead.
“Cheese?” I say.
“Up you ignorant selfish American,” he says.
“What?” I ask, appalled. That’s quite a judgement call right there when I was feeling all supportive of his cause.
“You people care only about your gas guzzling cars and yourselves, despicable!”
Vaguely I hear a “Mouse, no!” before I send the heel of my hand into his chin and he falls backward, his eyes rolling back into his head.
Lots of guns click around my head. Oops. The things you do for cheese.