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Rated: E · Fiction · Political · #2057561
Political strategy comes easy to a group of red Mice
Sunday Morning Sidewalk

“Mission accomplished,” squeaked Jeb Mouse, squeezing himself back through the loose board beneath the porch. The other mice wriggled backward, allowing him in, yet reluctant to give up their own views. Mice had lived under the porch for years and there was an opportunity son to expand their kingdom beyond the porch, perhaps into the barn, where the rats lived, if they could convince others that one of them was capable of leading.

“What? So you left a piece of chicken on the sidewalk for the fat cat. How do you think this will end his tyranny, Mr. Know It All?” The young brown mouse with short whiskers always questioned everyone. He truly believed it was his job to stop everything—shut it down even—if things weren’t going his way.

“Cruz Mouse, we’ve explained this already. The chicken is laced with truth serum from the Saskatchewan tribe. When Fat Cat eats it he will no longer be able to lie and that will erase his advantage. He’s only ahead in the polls because he tells everyone what they want to know.” Christie Mouse spoke sincerely, yet quite clearly, through cheese-stuffed cheeks. He enjoyed a snack now and then, and it showed, although there were rumors he had undergone gastric bypass a few years ago.

“Speaking of truth, how is anyone ever going to believe a word you say, Christie Mouse? You closed that bridge to the field last year and made everyone run around the block just because you were mad at your brother-in-law. What kind of leader would you be?” asked Marco Mouse, the youngest and most attractive member of the group.

Christie Mouse chewed his cheese and ignored the comment, but Jeb Mouse couldn’t resist offering his own response, “Now Marco Mouse, you haven’t been around here long enough to know how things work. One of the things we don’t do is attack our own! There’s always a reason to close bridges and there’s always a reason to carry guns. If you want to be a red mouse you have to accept that.” He chuckled and looked around in the dim light. “Am I right, fellas?”

Walker Mouse felt compelled to speak. “You’re right, Jeb, and don’t forget that red mice are independent. We’re thinkers and we’re hard workers. If we want to work 20 hour days we should be allowed to do that. No one needs to bargain for us. We can think for ourselves. We have the right to work and that right is guaranteed by the Constitution.”

Huckabee Mouse scowled at him. “I drank tea before you did,” he said.

Carson Mouse, the most intelligent of all the mice, moved between the two. “Now fellas, we don’t need to fight over the tea. There’s plenty for all of us. What we do need to let our people know is that they were never amoebas or fish or anything crazy like that. No sir, we were created as Mice, just the way God wanted it.”

Huckabee Mouse nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Ben. And we need more mice. We can’t let the Blue mice dictate how many mice there are. We’ll figure out a way to feed everyone. We need more mice and female mice are not intelligent enough to know how many offspring they need. Giving them control of that would be giving them too much control. Look at Hilary Mouse. She seems to think a female mouse should be in charge of her own body, and even in charge of the field. That’s ridiculous!

The mice grunted in agreement, their tiny noses twitching in mutual disdain at the thought of Hilary Mouse, and what she might do if she were in power. They might have to talk to the Blue mice then. What an awful idea.

“Look!” cried Kasich Mouse, a relative newcomer to the group, but one with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. “Here comes the Fat Cat!” They huddled together, peering through the crack, as a long haired golden tabby appeared on the sidewalk. The feline approached the chicken leg and lowered his nose, sniffing delicately. He crouched lower and began to eat faster, purring loudly. Soon the chicken was gone and he stood up, stretched and yawned. As he licked his paws he grinned widely.

“I know you’re there, little mice,” he said. A breeze caught his hair and lifted it high above his large intelligent green eyes. “I smelled the truth serum in your chicken but I ate it anyway. Telling the truth doesn’t matter to me. I always say what I want, anyway. I can afford to.” He growled a little laugh and sauntered over to the sand next to the porch, where he squatted and relieved himself.

“Hey boys, could you bury that for me?” He winked and made his way down the walk, searching for a sunny place to spend a lazy Sunday morning.

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