#aph mouse

America was sat on his couch – though what else could one expect from him, except, naturally, reckless heroism. He was delighting in his favourite cartoons, another norm for him, and trying to abstain from eating the perfectly crafted sub sandwich that sat beside him until the commercial break was over. He glanced at it, tongue gliding across his lips, but then aggressively tore his eyes away, back to the screen. Luckily enough, the show was returning just as he looked back. Tom and Jerry, classic cartoon action! Getting comfy, America moved his hand to the side to clutch his beautiful sandwich, but found his palm pressed not against its soft bread, but against a cold, hard plate. He whipped round, clutching his heart in shock. That perfect sandwich! Gone! Woe was he. Desperately scrambling around to find where his dear sandwich had escaped to, America did not notice the sounds of another kind of scrambling, somewhere else in the room.

Having no luck, America slumped back into the sofa, frowning like a child. He’d been looking forward to that sandwich, after all. It was as if he could still smell it in the air. Except he could. Visibly sniffing up the delicious scent, America followed its trail, turning round to look at the seat next to him. There sat his sandwich, and on top of his sandwich sat the reason it had vanished in the first place. America stared down at the mouse before him, and the mouse stared back up at him. Slowly, they both looked over at the television. Jerry was sinking his teeth into a comedically-large slice of cheese. Tom snuck up behind him, a frying pan held aloft. Noticing the mouse was engrossed with the TV - probably due to the cheese pictured upon it, as if America’s sandwich wasn’t enough – America slid his hand down beside the couch and clutched a frying pan laid on the floor next to it (he hadn’t washed up for weeks). He moved as gently as possible, one eye on the rodent, and held the pan above it. Then, simultaneously with Tom, he slammed the pot down upon the mouse – or, at least, he thought he did.

When he lifted the pan up in victory, America noticed that, apart from a squished sandwich and slightly dented couch, there was nothing beneath it. He glanced about desperately for the mouse, bewildered, but could see it nowhere. He didn’t take that as triumph, and he was right not to. Suddenly, skittering noises came from the frying pan itself. Just as America looked up, the mouse leapt off the pan and onto him, scurrying inside his shirt.

“Damnit!” America cursed. The little rodent, now a small bulge underneath his clothing, scrabbled about in an attempt to find a safe exit. It paused on his chest, clinging on for its life. America saw his opportunity. He swung the pan directly at the tiny bulge, smacking exactly where it was. But again, the mouse evaded his attack at the last second, leaving America to strike himself with the pan. Hard. Winded, America coughed and regained his breath, while the mouse escaped his shirt and his sight.

“All right, you little asshole…” He murmured, watching it run out into the hallway. “Let’s do this.” Strength regained, America darted out of the room, after the mouse. He spotted it sprinting down the corridor, towards his kitchen. As it neared the room, however, it flicked its hind legs, creating a ridge in the rug. America hurdled the ripple, spurring the frightened mouse on. He’d seen all the tricks played out on his television – it would take more than a trip-up to stop him now. So the mouse took extra measures. Knowing America’s eyes burned into its back, it scurried into the kitchen and directly underneath the dinner table. It glanced backward, but America wasn’t so stupid as to run into a table. While the mouse went under, he went over, leaping up and sliding across the polished wood to the other side. Seeing its plan hadn’t worked, the mouse skidded to a halt and turned around, running through America’s legs and back under the table, into the hallway once again.

“Damn!” America growled, whirling around as well. Though the U-turn gave the mouse a little advantage, America picked up the pace and stayed close on its tail. The mouse knew it would have to put in a little more effort if it wanted to escape with its bellyful of sandwich intact. It made a sudden turn, shooting up the stairs. America gave chase, almost slipping as he followed its sharp swivel round. As they reached the top of the stairs, the mouse took another turn, heading towards America’s room.

“Got you now!” America grinned evilly, ascending the last step. With America hot on its trail, the mouse made one final attempt to trip the country up. It knocked a stand – complete with vase of flowers – to the ground, right in America’s path, and then ran onward. It didn’t look back to see America jump the obstacle, although he did so slightly slowed, so as to briefly inspect the vase’s condition. When he saw it had survived the fall, he carried on unencumbered.

The mouse zipped into America’s bedroom, shutting the door behind itself, though America threw it open immediately afterward, somehow managing both to not fall for the trick and to not impersonate Jack Nicholson as he stormed in. He was too focused for such shenanigans, anyway, his eyes locked onto his target. The mouse ran through the room and onto the balcony beyond, and America followed. He surely had it now. The defenceless rodent sat at the balcony’s edge. America raced right toward it, arms outstretched to capture it. The mouse vanished at the last second, however. America skidded to a halt, but all too late. He glanced down. The ground laid stories below him. He glanced back at the balcony. The mouse sat upon it, having dodged out of the way at the last moment, happily observing its attempted captor’s doom.