Billy The Happy Murderous Mouse (A story for the Insane and their friends)

Billy was a happy little mouse, the happiest little mouse that lived in fact. He had everything a little mouse could desire, a warm bed, underneath a radiator pipe, easy access to the plentiful amounts of cheese in the shop, and the only cat within fifty yards was a vegetarian. In fact often he would sit with the cat over a grilled cheese sandwich and discuss the issues of the day. None of which I care to go into right now. The mouse was lonely sometimes though, the cat would often disappear for days on end, to where he didn’t know, and then whom could he talk to?

It got much worse on that fateful Tuesday when the cat came to say goodbye. He was going to live with a nice crazy lady he said, she had over three thousand cats, most of which lived in her hair, so he would have no shortage of friends. The two even discussed the notion of smuggling Billy into the house. But few cats are vegetarian, actually none except his buddy. So it was too risky. Perhaps he would visit one day, upon procurement of a kitten costume, or sniper rifle. A few tearful moments, and the cat was gone. Jesus, Billy thought, I don’t even remember his name, and what the hell is a vegetarian? Stupid cat thinks he’s people.

Now Billy was alone. So very alone. Of course there were numerous other mice in the shop, but he didn’t mix well with others. Stupid mice. Think they’re so great with their tails an shit. Fuck them, said Billy. Us turtlesheep are solitary creatures; I mean why would a mongoose want to hang out with rabbits anyway. I shall murder them, he thought. In elaborate and I suppose not so elaborate ways, depending on how I feel at the time. Yes murder them. Muwah muwahaha ha ha hah ha ha hah he thought.

He had heard the term murder many times; mainly when he passed the local church. Unfortunately he had no idea what it meant. And now that the cat was gone, whom could he ask? Then it hit him. Bastard, he screamed. Then he had an idea. Cheese, that’s the answer, I’ll have some cheese. So Billy ate some cheese and went to sleep in the sink. Water relaxed him. Well it wet him anyway. And he liked that. It made him cold. Silly little turtlesheep, I mean mouse. Anyway, then some other stuff happened and it wasn’t really all that interesting, eventually Billy discovered that he was indeed a mouse thus developing a horrible crippling fear of water, wool and laying eggs. And yes kids he discovered what murdering was. He was murdering someone one time and they screamed stop, don’t murder me. Billy ceased if only for a moment to question, and ask for some tips on technique. Then the spree began, it was a dark winter, well most winters are kinda dark, but you know, it was murder dark. He didn’t mind, murdering passed the time, and now that he had no one else to talk to he had a lot of time on his paws. Dark schmark he thought.

He had applied for several jobs but squirrels weren’t very employable in mining villages, or at least that’s what he had heard, between murders. He had noticed that some of the people around the neighbourhood were happy with what he was doing. That he was reducing the number of pests, turtlesheep, children and cheese. He often practiced his murdering skills on cheese, I mean who wouldn’t? The streets were cleaner and safer for those afflicted with standingonchairsandscreaminglikelittlegirls syndrome, or somethinaphobia in Latin. He didn’t speak much Latin. He spoke no Greek whatsoever. He was fluent in several other languages including Esperanto, it upset him sometimes that Esperanto never caught on, but then he didn’t speak to many people, so it wasn’t an issue really. He decided he would apply for a job as a cat. Not a vegetarian cat, one of the murdering ones. He liked murdering after all. He got a job at a small pet shop, owned and operated by the Russian mafia, where he had to stop wild animals from climbing into the cages and trying to be sold as pets. It happens more than you think, zoo escapees with no obvious source of food will do the strangest things. Billy would often see the creatures of the night, monkeys, standing on corners asking passers by were they looking for a good time, often they were, Giraffes pretending to be trees and eating the hats of passers-by, antelopes selling crack just to put their kids through school.

Billy spent his days murdering little things that crawled on the floor at first, trying to catch the smelly buggers before they could climb on anything. After a while he was promoted to table duty, stopping the larger animals. It was more difficult initially; but little Billy was a natural. On his birthday his manager gave him a shiny new kalashnikov.

Little Billy was on his way to the top. He got paid predominantly in free-base cocaine, which suited him fine. Fine and dandy thank you very much. He didn’t have to pay any tax at all, which pleased the intellectuals who wished to lead murderous mice, like young Billy in the upcoming revolution. But alas he was still lonely. He murdered all day long, got drugs for it and when the boss was away he could work his charm on some of the prettier electrical sockets. Sure their plugs got pissed off, but they knew that he would perform vasectomies on any that came near him during his “quality time”.

Something was still missing though. Then it hit him, bastards he said, and then he had an idea. But I don’t really feel like going into that now. The months and years went by, Billy would have an idea, but always get distracted by something sharp. His job was taking over. From his humble beginnings in the pet shop; he was now chief assassin for the Russian mafia. It was a satisfying occupation, he got to travel, sometimes even out of the town. He still worked with animals on the weekends, but something was bothering him. Maybe it was the increased number of pests, turtlesheep, children and cheese in his little town, their numbers had been growing rapidly since his working life began. He still wasn’t paying any tax, but the stores of free-base were growing. There was only so much he could consume himself, and after birthdays and Christmas presents he was still left with enough to throw a large Hollywood party. What to do, thought Billy. He didn’t know any celebrities.

His affections were beginning to wane for the sockets in the pet shop and he was beginning to smell like burnt fur. He loved the smell, but he wasn’t in love with it. Perhaps, Billy thought, it was time to move on. Leave this life of constant murdering for the mob. They were too demanding anyway. I mean, he was an artiste and they kept squeezing more and more out of him. His work was less satisfying to him now, less elaborate and more not so elaborate. He had this huge array of weaponry now, mainly gifts from loved ones, but mostly he just used his sniper rifle.

Then it hit him, bastards he roared, and then he had an idea. Sniper rifles, I told my buddy the vegetarian cat, whose name I cant remember that I would visit him upon procurement of either a kitten costume, which I have but is highly unflattering, or a sniper rifle. That’s it; I’ll go and visit the crazy lady’s house. He said his goodbyes to the mafia bosses, many tears were shed and much vodka was consumed. As a last gesture of good will he killed a few things on his way out.

Billy wasn’t sure where the crazy lady lived but he knew that crazy people often ate things. So, if she eats then she must live at 65ofteneatsthings terrace. He walked up the driveway of 65ofteneatsthings terrace and lo, there did be a sign. And lo it did say… ‘Crazy lady, who owns lots of cats, some of which live in her hair and yes she recently got a cat who is a vegetarian, and no I cant remember his name either’. What a helpful sign, Billy thought.

Perhaps she will live after all. Unless, she is a turtlesheep of course. He attached the telescopic lens to his sniper rifle and peered through the window. He saw nothing, and then he directed the lens towards a window that wasn’t covered by curtains and peered again. What he saw was to change his life for the next three seconds. He saw his buddy, sitting atop of what appeared to be a half eaten crazy lady. Pretty scarf, Billy thought. He worked his way back to front door and slipped through the cat flap. ‘Hi’ he said in Cantonese, ‘what’s your name again?’ ‘Buddy’ said his buddy.

Billy and Buddy had a lot of catching up to do, and over the course of several days the little murderous mouse discovered that Buddy didn’t know what a vegetarian was either, he just thought it sounded cool. He didn’t kill the old lady, the cats in her hair got restless. The remainder left when the chickens moved in. they only stayed for a few nights though, they were given the wrong address and thought the house was a B&B. Chickens as you know, love the taste of crazy ladies, so, sad as it is, it was inevitable really.

From that day forth Billy and Buddy were inseparable, after the operation they were able to go to the bathroom by themselves, even though most of the time they didn’t want to. They set up their own little pet shop next door to the one owned by the Russian mafia. The Russians were very understanding about it, since their shop was mainly used as a front for arms, legs and drug smuggling. They joined a religious cult and married naked Filipino au pairs, with extraordinarily small feet, that danced only on Sundays.

The pet shop flourished, as Billy started giving free drugs with every purchase. Sometimes they dressed up in each other’s fur just for laughs and took pictures to show to their friends on the Internet. They were so happy. Later Billy went into the movies, mainly westerns. He used the money he earned to fund an uprising against a South American dictator but got into trouble with the American government. He underwent extensive plastic surgery, changed his name several times, and got legally emancipated from his trousers What a silly, friendly, murderous little mouse he was. I wonder where he is now, don’t you? P.S he’s in your hair………..