They
tore at his whiskers. He squealed and bit in the tail of the one that
hissed nearby, a few inches by the pipe that opened into gutters. The
one nearby moved his massive body a second too late. They all will be
doomed, from the tips of their pink tiny tones to the tips of their
furry tails, to the very last hair at the very end of each of their
ears. All three of them, destined to be swallowed by the vast expanse of
slimy gluttony called WOOZEL LAND, ruled by the fattest of them all,
with lines of skin rolling in undauntedly clusters on his neck, from
brown to beige to a creamy type of white, the result of eating too many
pellets of ferret food as proudly produced by Fake VOLE & Co.
He
sighed and proceeded to chewing the tail, cleverly using his maneuver
to distract the big one and knock the skinny one off balance, all in one
swift move with a terrifying dook, a special clucking noise as from an
angry chicken. Annoyed and hissing, the big one rolled on his back,
straining to pull the tail out of his teeth and escape into the gutter,
before it would be too late. Before the impending doom would cover them
all with its vast unpreventable vastness and its bleak naked
non-furryness that instilled a feeling of absolute horror in anyone who
happened to look upon it, except the one that ruled them all, of course.
Our
friend suspected, they has some kind of a deal. Possibly, involving
mice. Quite possible, still, involving rabbits or some other small
rodents, the thought of which was so terrifying that he almost forgot to
swallow and clenched his teeth on the big's tail to which he slapped
him with a paw and missed, because a sudden itch forced him to arch his
fat body back and nervously but with pleasure scratch in that damned
spot until it was gone.
The
skinny one decided he's not part of the game anymore and shivered,
perhaps thinking he could conveniently slink up the drain pipe, perhaps
even have enough strength to grasp at its insides with his claws. He
pulled back, puffed his tail and performed an extraordinary number of
Weasel War Dance, complete with ten bounces, twenty flips, and then
popping on the ground.
Our
hero simply looked on, his little black eyes distant, contemplating.
Perhaps there was a way out, perhaps the universe wouldn't collapse on
itself, not yet. Perhaps the hand of wrath hanging over the edge of the
impending doom was, after all, something else, an entirely different
species. Perhaps...
The
cage door opened and Molly dropped a piece of cooked chicken: "Here,
fuzzies, come here. Molly's got a treat for you. Come on, get it. Come
on, now!" She smiled her punctured eight-year-old smile, unaware of
exactly what she has just interrupted.
The end.
__________________________________________
i hang up on editors....they beg me to come in, write virtually from home, even call once or twice a month, and nothing works; i refuse to be manipulated by whiskey swilling freaks. ksenia stepped up to the plate here and filled in. i thought it would fit in well with my useless drivel. funny thing happened on her way to my lair, though. she got 6 other writers to submit ferret tales.... if i could but have their eMail addresses, i could get 6 years worth of writing done for me!!
i tweet at..... well, you know where to find me and tell ksenia how much you just loved the cliff hanger: @
kseniaanske
