Saturday, December 21, 2002
The perky red-head was loading her belongings in her satchel, preparing to go home from work. She tried to put a book into the bag. But the book would not go all the way down and sit squarely in the bag. There was something in the way.
The perky red-head reached in to remove the obstacle from under the book. It was probably a pen or a highlighter.
Her hand moved into the bag boldly. And touched something soft, cold and slightly damp. She pulled the object up. "OH S#!T, IT'S A DEAD MOUSE" she screamed silently in her head. Had anyone seen? No. Quick get some tissue. Wrap it up. Where to put it?
Yes, there had been mice in the perky red-head's house. Not just any mice, mind you. They were housemouses. The cat had even caught one -- once. The mouse must have been drunk, veered off the road and slammed into the cat's face with enough force to trigger an autonomic nerve spasm
resulting in the opening of the cat's jaws which subsequently closed on the aforementioned mouse. She was just that kind of good for nothing cat -- all looks, no brains. Should have let those ants have the cat. Make a note to self: Fire the cat!
Where to put it? She look furtively around. The garbage can was just too mundane. Brunettes and blondes might throw it in the trash. But our perky red-head was no ordinary girl. A dead mouse is not a useless mouse.
She thought about putting the little dead one in the printer paper tray. Management would have Terminix up here so damn fast, the sonic boom would hurt your ears.
Then she saw it. The perfect place. Her coworker's fuzzy, plush, red Christmas stocking. Hanging by the cubicle with care. Such a present! Merry Christmas. Hee Hee Hee.