Bill, Bob, and Stan

Now you know...the rest of the story.

Bill and Bob heard the rattatting of the typewriter in the spare room. They made their way to check it out.

“What are you doing, Stan?” Bob asked.

“Writing my memoirs, thankyouverymuch,” said Stan.

“Memoirs?” asked Bill. “What would be of interest to anyone in the world that you could write? You’re just…”

“Don’t say it. Just don’t say it, Bill. I know what I’m doing.”

Bob asked, “And how far have you gotten?”

“I’m almost to The Incident.”

“Oh, of course, The Incident,” said Bill. “Can’t you just let it go? I mean, we have. Ever since the lawsuit was thrown out by that judge, we just let it go, Stan. Perhaps you need some counseling.”

Stan said, “I do not need help of any such kind and I resent the insinuation.”

“Yes, but we all needed physical help at the time. The doctors offered psychological intervention as they called it, but all of us were stubborn,” said Bill. “Still are.”

“Anyhow, how are you typing it? Where’d you get the typewriter?” asked Bob.

“Eh, I had it laying around.”

“More importantly, when did you learn to type?” Bill asked.

“Over the years. Essentially, it’s a modified hunt and peck method.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Bob said. “I mean, how do you know if what you’re typing is accurate.”

“I have a plan to ask Her to read it to me.”

“What?” both Bob and Bill said. “Her?”

“Are you completely and utterly out of your mind?” asked Bob. “How quickly you forget. You do remember what She did last time? Of course you do, it’s the whole premise of your memoir. I take it, the whole book goes like this. Childhood, backstory to The Incident, The Incident, and the dismissed lawsuit affiliated with The Incident. Am I right?”

“Yes, that’s about it. I have a plan to smooth everything over with Her. It’s full proof if I may say so myself.”

“Maybe that should be the theme of your book!” Bill said. “Name it something like ‘My Plan for Smoothing Over the Unsmoothable with Her.’”

Bob asked, “And what if your plan isn’t fool proof?”

“Then I write the sequel. How hard can that be?”

“That is, if you make it out of that house again alive,” Bill said. “Perhaps that was our warning.”

“I’ll be fine. The lawsuit probably shook Her up and softened Her. Now, will you two get out of here so I can finish this draft?”

After Bob and Bill left, Stan stretched and then began typing, recalling The Incident as best as he could.

The Incident

I’ve got to be honest on the matter, I still twitch when I smell sharpened steel or hear a woman’s pitter patter steps. That day started ordinary enough. The three of us were blind from birth, navigating by the touch of our whiskers, but we were hungry. The farmhouse kitchen smelled of fresh bread and bacon grease. We could almost taste it in the air.

We scurried along the baseboard, noses high when the farmer’s wife appeared. (I’m intentionally omitting the farmer’s wife name to deter future litigation attempts from her and her husband, the farmer). Her skirts swished around as she walked. That’s why we knew she was even in the same room with us. Maybe she thought we were after her cheese on the counter, or perhaps she just hated anything small and scurrying. We froze, but curiosity (or stupidity) won the day. We darted forward, drawn by the scent on her apron, thinking perhaps she’d drop a crumb.

She didn’t.

Instead, she shrieked and used some rather salty language as she grabbed the carving knife from the wooden block. From the shoosh sound it made through the air, we could all tell it was something we didn’t want to get near. Swoosh sounds are like that. I felt the first chop at the base of my tail, then nothing but wet warmth and pain. My brothers squealed beside me. The blade came down again, twice more, their tails severed clean. We bolted blind and bleeding, tumbling over each other through the open door, into the yard.

We hid under the barn for days, tails throbbing like fire, learning to balance without those tails. Somehow, we patched each other up, but wondered if they would ever grow back. How we longed to use them just once again.

What happened to the farmer’s wife, you ask? She probably wiped the knife and went back to her baking. But we remember. We three tailless and vision impaired mice are forever wary of carving knives and mean farmer’s wives.

We weighed the option of pressing criminal charges, but who’s going to believe three handicapped mice over an emotional and overworked farm woman? That’s when we filed our first civil lawsuit for permanent and irreparable damages.

I, Stan, came up with the idea for the nursery rhyme. My brothers thought it was gruesome and would never catch on. They had a point but I had just had to get it on paper and into a song. Thankfully they were wrong about it catching on because we’re living very well on the royalties.