Mouse Is A Funny Girl! #amwriting

mouse in vest

More mouse tales can be found here.

Mouse Is a Funny Girl!

“Get in the room. Move, move, move,” the big blonde carrying the ak-47 says while pressing it into Diego’s back.

In another situation I would probably grin, because the way big blonde says “move” with his accent sounds like “moo.” This is neither the time nor the place for silly thoughts, however, I remind myself while biting my lip.

I wonder what the urgency was in getting more food up here. The tables are still laden. I guess getting kidnapped makes you lose your appetite. The blonde with the gun pushes Diego and me toward the wall and then he’s on his knees. From under the cart he removes a vest that’s been duct-taped to the bottom. It’s a vest that looks a lot like it’s carrying explosives. Mystery solved.

“Oh, Chica, that means someone on the staff has been helping. That means—”

“—that my disguise won’t last much longer.”

I slide the glasses down a little on my nose and glance around the room looking for Tom. Then I notice he’s sitting on the floor, legs spread out in front of him, his chin against his chest and blood splattered on his once white shirt. My heart sinks. I stare at him, trying to detect movement, wondering if they killed him to eliminate the threat.

My stare doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You. Why are you peculiar?” Ak-47 asks.

“Born that way,” I say.

“Funny girl. Mind your own business.”

I gaze down at my toes and then realize that might draw attention to my out-of-place for a caterer strappy sandals. I look at Diego instead, who is standing with his arms folded against his chest, which makes his jacket gape enough that his gun isn’t noticeable.

“She looks familiar,” the blonde who was chatting up Tom earlier says.


“I’ve been in and out of the room with serving trays,” I say.

Ak-47 looks at me and then grins. “Here, put this on,” he says handing me the vest.

“With all due respect, it doesn’t go with my outfit.”

“Put it on. You don’t want to get me upset.”

“Are you sure?”

“Chica, just put it on.”

“Listen to your friend.”

I take the vest. It’s unexpectedly heavy and I almost drop it. After I struggle to get my arms through the opening, because Ak-47 doesn’t help, I stand there avoiding his gaze.

“Now, who’s a funny girl?” he asks.

“You,” I say. “Always you.”


end 9/10/2017

Sascha Darlington


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