Mr. Scruff and the lady in heat
Mr. Scruff, the chipmunk, popped out of his hole. A dry wind swept the field, carrying a strange, familiar chirping shriek that reverberated inside his tiny head and stirred inside his tiny loins. He shivered. He lowered his head and licked the red blotch on his front paw. It tasted salty and metallic and filled him with a hazy shame over some undetermined struggle the previous night. His friend, Petr Rabbit, had no doubt bitten and ejected him from his den for defiling it in some way, through vomit or urine or humping Petr's lame drunk (soft, bunny) cousin/den-mate to climax. Or all three. Rotten apples always made Mr. Scruff act that way.
The wind died down, but the chirping shriek remained. It tugged at him from the nearby orchard. He hobbled towards it. It grew louder, resonating in his skull with such intensity that he had to lie down, easy prey should a fox or hawk spot him.
"Fuck a fox or hawk," he thought.
He closed his eyes. His heartbeat quickened. His underbelly tingled, and its white hairs stood up on end, and that was not all that stood up on end. The shriek, in swirls of sound that would make more sense if they were colors, continued.
Mr. Scruff vomited apple peel onto a patch of crab-grass.
Half-conscious, he had a vision. He lay trapped in a corner of his childhood burrow with his sick and patchy-haired brother, under a dead leaf, unable to come out, unable to play any games, lest his mother nip him. That same shriek sounded off the walls, along with another sound, a deeper, male squeak. Then a musky stench and hours of interminable quiet, and finally peeking out from under the corner of the leaf, he saw a fat stranger with a big fat stripe nibbling on his mother's ear. Was he going to eat her?
Mr. Scruff tried to vomit again, but there was nothing in his stomach. The shriek had stopped. A fat, younger chipmunk scurried past him without acknowledgment.
"Asshole," Mr. Scruff squeaked, and wandered into the orchard in search of a rotten apple.
Up next: Mr. Scruff prepares for winter
The wind died down, but the chirping shriek remained. It tugged at him from the nearby orchard. He hobbled towards it. It grew louder, resonating in his skull with such intensity that he had to lie down, easy prey should a fox or hawk spot him.
"Fuck a fox or hawk," he thought.
He closed his eyes. His heartbeat quickened. His underbelly tingled, and its white hairs stood up on end, and that was not all that stood up on end. The shriek, in swirls of sound that would make more sense if they were colors, continued.
Mr. Scruff vomited apple peel onto a patch of crab-grass.
Half-conscious, he had a vision. He lay trapped in a corner of his childhood burrow with his sick and patchy-haired brother, under a dead leaf, unable to come out, unable to play any games, lest his mother nip him. That same shriek sounded off the walls, along with another sound, a deeper, male squeak. Then a musky stench and hours of interminable quiet, and finally peeking out from under the corner of the leaf, he saw a fat stranger with a big fat stripe nibbling on his mother's ear. Was he going to eat her?
Mr. Scruff tried to vomit again, but there was nothing in his stomach. The shriek had stopped. A fat, younger chipmunk scurried past him without acknowledgment.
"Asshole," Mr. Scruff squeaked, and wandered into the orchard in search of a rotten apple.
Up next: Mr. Scruff prepares for winter
Labels: Mr. Scruff
posted by JMH | 8:16 PM
1 Comments:
This made my teeth hurt!
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