FanStory.com - Of Mice and Womenby michaelcahill

Dastardly. If someone asked me to come up with a word to describe my plot, that would be the word. Could a snot-nosed twelve-year-old, little-brat of a boy come up with a terrorist's plot? This one could. I knew poverty. I knew how folks remained poor, as a necessity, to further the security of those wealthy few standing on their aching backs.

My folks were broken. Mom gussied up the hair and nails for so-called southern belles. She could tell you things about them that would shock you. But, she wouldn't.

When it came to aging gladiators, no one could match my pops. At age forty-one, we could see the end coming for him. They loved him at the underground fights. He made them money and had done so for many years.

"Francis", that one word would signal his entrance to the ring. Everyone in Southern Mississippi knew "Francis" meant the meanest, toughest fightin' man the south had ever produced. Well, at least people interested in such a thing.

Age and a gazillion blows to the head had taken a toll on him though. His baldhead looked like a geographical map. Many an opponent lost their nerve just lookin' at him. We all knew his fighting days were numbered. And then what? His brain had to look worse than his skull. He sounded like an idiot when he spoke. I don't mean idiot as an insult. I mean it old school ,when they listed IQ scores with terms like moron, imbecile, cretin and idiot. Idiot checked in at about sixty-four. Once he fought his last fight, there wouldn't be much he could do, maybe sweep up at the beauty parlor ... if Mrs. Mendelbaum was feel'n charitable. It wasn't her normal state.

Me? I was just a little black boy in a mostly white school. I rode an orange bus to school every morning and home every afternoon. I went to school with rich kids. I didn't have to suffer being called derogatory names or endure lunchtime beatings for my race. Rich kids don't do that. In fact, they were friendly and welcoming to me and my fellow bus riders, at least at school. I never saw them anywhere else.

It might be difficult to understand, but being called something objectionable to my face is preferable to someone thinking it and smiling to me serenely.

All of the above is to establish my mindset. Everyone wants to know why when a terrorist commits a heinous act. I am merely trying to answer that question.

The Southern Ladies Cotillion and NRA Fundraiser Ball took place every year on January fourth. January fourth signaled the beginning of duck hunting season. It's a big deal down here. I here ya'll a hollerin' an a sympathizin' with them ducks now. Well, you answer me this then: if it's such a big trauma to the ducks, then why do they fly SOUTH for the winter?

Step one in my plan was to steal as many southern panties as I possibly could. Now, I don't want you thinkin' there was any thrill personally in old lady's panties. To be honest I find them revulsive. But, they were necessary for my plan. I needed as many as I could get my hands on.

Next stop, the local pet shop. I purchased forty feeder-mice. They are exactly what the name implies. They're for snakes, birds-of-prey, gators and the like. I assume the mice aren't in on the vote that determines a critters status.

Well, and this is heartwarming for you animal lovers, it was these critter's lucky day. I had no intention of feeding them to anything.

They would be going into a life of terrorism. Those prim and proper ladies were going to get a big surprise at that cotillion.

Their training was simple. I placed the panties in mouse cages and their food would go right in the crotch of the panties. I trained them over the course of a month, using a rewards system. If they found panties, they would find food. After a while, they looked for panties whenever they were hungry. Is it getting clear now?

I believe that would be enough right there to satisfy ordinary vengeance. But, there would be a further surprise. After all, I'm twelve years old, not nine.

The day of the cotillion arrived. Mom had a busy day gussying up one Southern belle after another. Pops was doin' well too at his new job. The belles went out of their way to pretend they enjoyed his company.

"Why, it just looks spic n span in here. Neva' looked betta' ... and all them muscles too. You’re a lucky lady."

Then they'd look at my mom who'd just smile and say, "Yes'm he do come in handy."

By nine P.M., everyone was seated and speeches were being given. My mice hadn't eaten for two days. Dinner had been finished, the tables cleared and the kitchen closed. The aroma of food filled the air, but none could be found anywhere. I released the mice in the foyer and ran out the door closing it. I took up my position by a window looking in at the scene.

The first victim turned out to be Bart Pennyweather, the local NRA president. A mouse ran right up his pant leg and he started dancing at the podium and screaming in a voice at least three octaves above his deep speaking voice. Apparently, his wife, Lulu, wasn't the only panty wearer in the family.

Within a couple minutes, most of the woman were screaming and running around frantically. A couple women made no move at all; apparently, I had stolen their only pair. One of the women couldn't smile any wider. It appears she didn't find the experience unpleasant at all. The plan was a great success. The meeting had degenerated into a madhouse. All of these hoity toity blue bloods were running around screaming, throwing their panties through the air and lying on the ground with their husbands groping up their lovely gowns.

"Get it honey!"

"No. More to the right. You almost have it. Don't stop! Oh yes! That's it right there!"

"I can't wait. You've got to go after it NOW!"

Well, you get the idea, highly entertaining.

Oh yeah--the surprise. Just about then, my friends arrived. I directed them to the foyer. I opened the door and whispered to them, "Release the cats".