Showdown at 4-C

Ok, I usually reserve this blog for pictures. But Ryan's (my nephew in California) posting on his blog about "Satan" made me pull this old story out. You will HAVE to forgive the foul language. It is a fictional story of a man named Stephen who happens to let a situation get the very best of him (don't pretend it couldn't happen to you!).

Anyway, the story was a creative writing assignment for English 212. The plot had to be "pursuit." Ryan, maybe you could add artwork!

Here it is:

Showdown at 4-C

Stephen caught the critter out of the corner of his eye, though he heard absolutely nothing. By the time he turned to pull focus, it was gone. Stephen knew what (or who) it was. He stared unproductively at the spot for some lingering seconds – or minutes. He concentrated on the periphery, taking diligent care not to remove his sights from the primary marker. He paid close attention to his hearing as well, almost proud that he could listen and look with such intensity simultaneously.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, and Stephen had nowhere to go. This was the night. He was ready. He softly hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the two glue traps he had set out in the corners earlier in the week. He placed one on each side of the opening to the living room, smartly positioning them at the edge of the baseboard. When he chased the mouse out of the room, these traps would serve as a backup catch system. The rodent had to exit the room at one side or the other of the single opening, and he would certainly be running along the boundaries.

For two weeks, the mouse had challenged Stephen in his new apartment at Park Terrace, 413 Longwood, Apt. 4-C. Stephen had been warned about roaches, but not mice. He was pretty sure there was just the one, and he wasn’t about to go into the next day without resolving this crisis. It had to be tonight.

“Alright, Einstein, let’s see how smart you are,” Stephen provoked. It was on. Einstein knew it too. Wherever he was hiding, he was preparing his strategy. This tall, two-legged stranger who had invaded his home two weeks ago was clearly a menacing threat now. Up to this point, he had just been a frightening figure. Now Einstein could sense impending danger.

Einstein was patient. Stephen was not, but knew he must pretend to be. He didn’t want to draw out the criminal prematurely. Stephen was armed with a chimney sweep broom in one hand and oven mit on the other. It wasn’t a big room, but there were many sanctuaries for one Einstein’s size. Stephen started by convincing himself that his foe must be somewhere to his left. He last saw a streak of movement in that direction, and was certain the mouse couldn’t have gotten back to the other side without being seen. He had a small amount of doubt in this theory, since he had left briefly to retrieve the glue traps, but he figured not enough time had passed for the mouse to feel relaxed enough to make another move.

Einstein could see Stephen, though Stephen didn’t know it. The mouse watch wide-eyed from his hideout beneath the loveseat, his nose a twitching machine picking up every scent and sensation. He was terrified of his human pursuer. Stephen kept trying to remind himself of that. He’s more scared of you than you are of him Stephen. He started to laugh silently when he looked down his arms at the oven mit and hand broom. Then the thought of being reduced to a horrified mess with primitive weapons by such an insignificant creature made him angry. Still, there was an intoxicating rush that he found himself enjoying. He remembered that he had plenty of time, and began playing the role more intensely. He talked to himself – even answered himself – as he began slowly moving in.

“Don’t move too quickly. We need to be ready when he makes his run.”

“I’m not,” he answered, almost irritated. “Just get the broom ready, and don’t chicken out when the time comes to smack the crap out of the little bastard.”

“Come on Einstein, you gray little fart! Get your furry ass out here!”

Tough talk could serve him well if he could keep his rival on edge. Einstein didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He knew Stephen couldn’t get under the loveseat. He would hold his ground, hoping Stephen would once again just give up and go back to whatever it was he did. Stephen’s voice did indeed frighten him though. He had heard it before, but not from this close distance, and not with such a tone of impending doom. He waited. This was his play. Just wait.

Stephen first used the broom to shuffle aside a shirt and some dirty socks from off the floor, in case Einstein had hidden there. He felt a huge rush of adrenaline when the clothes left the floor. Einstein flinched, but remained disciplined. Stephen realized a moment later that if the mouse had run from under the shirt, he would not have been ready to strike him. It was good training ground. He pumped himself up.

“I told you not to be a big chicken! You’re gonna have to be sharper than that to get this little shit,” Stephen scolded himself. He had a spontaneous idea that might get the chase on sooner than later. He made a fist with the oven glove and pounded the floor once in hopes of making Einstein jump and run instinctively. “He’s gonna wanna get out of here if there’s a lot of commotion,” he explained. “Just make hell! Shock and awe! Give this little runt what he’s asking for!”

He started throwing objects and pounding the floor. “Come on shit for brains! You want a piece of me? Where’s your tough little ass now? Come on chicken shit!” Stephen got more psyched, but the mouse remained steady in his resolve. Don’t move, Einstein’s little brain kept saying.

Stephen stretched out his right leg and kicked the recliner. This time, he was ready, but no mouse. “Cover the perimeter first,” he ordered. He methodically made his way around the room, making sure to keep most of his body bulk near the center. He reached for the ash shovel near the fireplace. He shed the oven mit in order to better handle his new weapon. He used the tool to flush out any enemy combatants from beneath the dark shelter of the remaining pieces of furniture. The loveseat was last. As Stephen steered the metal rod in the direction of the loveseat, Einstein finally made his move. It was a hoped-for yet unexpected maneuver, and Stephen was not ready. Instead of taking the predicted path behind the loveseat, Einstein bolted right for the center of the room, toward Stephen.

The human’s reflexes proved too powerful for himself. Instead of striking out, Stephen sprang to his feet like a house cat, and rocketed to a spot atop the cushions of the couch behind him. Every nerve in his body felt electrical current. He first threw the ash shovel in the general direction of the mouse, then the hand broom. He wasn’t even sure what all he had yelled, but he was infuriated that the moment had made him scream. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

This wasn’t fun anymore. Stephen actually considered the use of his .380 caliber handgun at one point. By now, Einstein had made his way back to the kitchen. He had darted right between the two impassable glue traps and arrived safely at his asylum between the layers of drywall behind the refrigerator. He would live to terrorize Stephen another day. Einstein was exhausted. Stephen left his apartment to acquire reinforcements – more glue traps, 3 boxes of De-Con, and some Raid wasp and hornet killer. The battle was lost, but not the war.