вторник, февраля 07, 2006

Round 1 to the mouse

Beaten by a fricken mouse.

Of course, I forgive myself for the encounter - when a man's hungry, he needs bread. What he doesn't need - indeed, never even begins to suspect - is the possibility that when a mouse is hungry, it also needs bread.

So there I was, happily fishing around in a plastic bag for a suitable chunk, when I felt two itchy little pinpricks in my finger. There was a black thing in the bag - a fricken black thing, moving so fast I could only see it was black and it was a thing.

The body kicked in long before the brain: I began dancing round the kitchen, shrieking and furiously flapping the bag around, desperate to get my hand back in one piece. Clearly some primal instinct, some remnant of my cave-sniffing past, had recalled that fast fricken black things were mortally dangerous. It scrabbled up my arm, bonzaid it's way to the floor, and wriggled under the stove.

I've recently begun considering meself something of a burlily unfuckwithable dude, so it was a bit of a blow to find meself clutching at my heart and squealing like a decidedly unburlily fuckwithable wretch.

Round 1 to the mouse: The traps are primed; the cheese is rich and stanky; there's a reputation at stake here.

2 комментария:

Анонимный комментирует...

round one, i caught, like everyone must have, means round two will be forthcoming - im waiting and bets are being placed.
i only wonder at the following:
I've recently begun considering meself something of a burlily unfuckwithable dude....? do you really feel this way?

SCPP комментирует...

I think you mean 'DID you really feel this way', given the encounter with the mouse left the protagonist feeling (you may recall) like an unburlily fuckwithable wretch, and not otherwise.

In answer to that particular question, I should point out that all of us have quite astonishingly mutable - one could even say schizophrenic - perceptions of ourselves; perceptions which probably seem reasonable at the time, though they may well seem decidedly warped to the onlooker (or onreader, as it were): nonetheless, I think it behooves us all to remember that fictional characters rarely if ever feel anything at all.

Now that's what I call a Sentence.