The Mousetrap Fortune Teller
“Where you goin’ mouse?”
“Headin’ around the corner, over this baseboard, and under the crawlspace of that room right there. I see you, Victor. I saw what you did to Agnes last night and I ain’t havin’ it. I aim to live past my twentieth day in this house. I have big plans for that Swiss cheese and crackers tray The Planters left on the breakfast table this morning.”
“Plans, eh? You know that’s a trap, right?”
“It ain’t your trap. Mrs. Planter is none-the-wiser and Mr. Planter only comes downstairs when he is being summoned for dinner. I plan to lay my belly all over those crackers while gulping down that delicious cheese.”
“Is that right? Lemme tell you what is gonna happen. Mrs. Planter’s gonna come over here soon, place a piece of Gruyère cheese on this trap, and prance her bony frame back upstairs. And just like the rest of them, you’ll bend. You’ll make your way over here, idling with the air of the night, place your measly-brained head out for that cheese, and SNAP! I’ll get ya.”
The space between Victor and Monty Mouse grows thick. Monty knows there’s a chance he’ll get snipped, but he doesn’t want it to be tonight. Not while there are still so many snacks to try in the Planter’s home. He bargains with Victor. “What if I make a trade?”
“A trade? What do you have that I want other than your head?”
“You know Polly’s pregnant. I’ll give you our firstborn if you let me live.”
“Monty Mouse! You are a cold and wretched little rodent — your firstborn?”
Victor thinks about the trade. The head of any mouse is as good as any and Mrs. Planter will never know it’s not Monty. They all knew Polly was due any day now, but would the little one hold out long enough to become fair game?
“I’ve thought about it and Monty, I gotta pass. That ain’t in the plans. The plans state you will die and you will die tonight. Now, have at that how you will.”
“You can change the plans, Victor. Every mouse knows that. Instead of snapping down on my head, stall for a few seconds. Pop a spring. Do something!”
“Yeah, but the plans, Monty. The plans . . . Unless there’s divine intervention for your vermin-like soul, I cannot interfere with the plans. That’s how it is. That’s just how it’s gotta be.”
Victor sits silently in his corner, gearing his springs and board for the succulent meeting of Harper’s butchery famous Gruyère cheese. Tonight, there will be blood.
Just like every night.
©2019 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved,