Page 32 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
She’s followed by a tidal wave of shrieking womenfleeing the food court, where the popcorn stands now serve as the epicenter of a full-on rodent rave as mice dart in all directions as if they’ve been told the food court is about to close and they’ll be out of cheese forever.
“It’s likeThe Nutcracker!”a little girl calls out with glee.
Yes—the rabies edition.
“A rat!” Ree calls out again to those who still have their eardrums intact. “The size of a minivan!”
“MICE!” the other women shriek as they dash past. “EVERYWHERE!”
This is it,Chip gasps, vibrating with excitement.We’ve found paradise. It’s like we died and went to cat heaven!
And human hell, I want to add.
It’s heaven indeed,Fish agrees with an enthusiastic yowl of her own.This establishment has an infestation of the highest quality. And look at the SIZE of that one! It’s practically a main course with leftovers.
Oh, good grief, she’s right. Another herd scurries past us. More screams from the peanut gallery. More nightmare fodder for me.
This is the good life,Chip broadcasts at top feline volume.They’re everywhere. It’s raining snacks!
Rodent utopia,Fish agrees, regal and focused.I want the big one. The one with the limp. He looks extra juicy.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter under my breath. “We are not doing this today. You cannot eat them. This is a public venue.”
Chip scoffs my way.But it’s practically acatered event,Josie.
Ree clutches my arm with trembling fingers. “Do we have traps? A broom? A trained owl?”
“What we have is no budget and two cats with delusions of grandeur,” I say, watching Fish and Chip twitch with anticipation as if they’re about to break out of tote bag jail and start the great rodent purge of Huckleberry Hollow.
The cats exchange a meaningful look, clearly locked in deep mental communication like tiny whiskered generals.
We need a squad,Fish declares.Stray cats. Alley cats. Freelancers. We form a coalition. The Feline Extermination Force.
F.E.F.,Chip repeats reverently.We’ll need ranking officers. Can I be General Crunchypaws?
I shake my head at the sight. “It’s almost as if I traded one rat in for another,” I mutter, watching the chaos unfold as more visitors spot the rodents and execute impressive spontaneous high jumps. “But we can’t keep them, and you two can’t possibly eat them all. I should call an exterminator, but according to the nonexistent budget, that’s not happening for another ten years.”
Do you hear that, Fish?Chip’s mouth is agape with delight.An entire decade of feasting is upon us!
No, it’s not, you big oaf,Fish shoots back.We need to get those mice under control or Josie won’t have a theme park to run. Hoomans, especially those of the female variety, are terrified of those wily little creatures.
You’re right. I mean it, we need to rid the premises of them ASAP so we can get back to what’s really important—the other snacks this place has to offer.
The cats engage in what can only be described as a strategic planning session that would impress Pentagon officials.
We’ll establish a hierarchical command structure,Fish continues, sounding like a tiny, furry general who’s been studying military strategy.We’ll be generals. They’ll be the infantry.
As long as I don’t have to share my window spot,Chip concedes pragmatically, because priorities are priorities even during a rodent crisis.
I find myself nodding. “You know what? That’s not a bad idea. Go ahead and recruit some local strays. If they promise to work for room and board—and no union fees—I’m in. As long as they keep this place mouse-free, everyone will be happy.”
The cats exchange a look of surprise that theirhuman actually agrees with their plan before dashing off toward the park’s perimeter, their tiny tails held high with a noble purpose. I watch them go, mentally addingcat army recruitment officerto my rapidly expanding job description.
I glance back at Georgie, who’s now attempting to pet a lobster while arguing with the chef about whether or not lobsters can actually swim. The crowd around them is divided between filming the melee for social media and googling lobster-related misdemeanors. I hope the law is in my favor.
But something tells me it’s not.
CHAPTER 12
