The Tragic Demise of Captain Nemo
He knew right away when he heard the sound. His heart skipped a beat and his insides reeled. Captain Nemo turned and his eyes confirmed his intuition. Wifey’s body lay lifeless, the victim of a metal mouth.
Captain Nemo’s left eye welled and emitted a single tear. It trickled down his face and dropped to the floor, breaking the horrible, terrifying silence. He looked up at the ever-distant ceiling and yelled into the 2 AM darkness. It was a blood-curling howl that meant only one thing: revenge.
“GROSSSSVEEEENNNNOOOOOOORRRRRRRRR!”
—
In his bed, 22-year-old college student Fred Grosvenor slept peacefully. His dreams were mild and pleasant, a cherished respite from a grueling academic workload and prescient exams.
Mr. Grosvenor did not hear Captains Nemo’s yell nor the dull thud of his carefully placed mousetrap. His conscience was clear – for now. He arose at the sprightly hour of 9:30 AM, fried a quick egg and drowsily entered the living room. Havoc had been wreaked last night. A half-eaten chicken caesar wrap laid strewn across the floor, tinfoil casing and romaine lettuce scattered like broken glass.
Nemo! It had to be. A grisly scowl. He rushed over to check his murder weapons. The peanut butter lure from trap one was gone, but the snare didn’t fire. More fury. Trap two, also harmlessly diffused. It was the start of a bad morning and an even worse day.
Then, Mr. Grosvenor's mood changed from palpable anger to juvenile delight. An adorable little mouse lay mangled in trap three. “I’ve got you now, Nemo!” He unleashed out devilish laughter shook the very foundation of the rickety, off-campus house.
—
Captain Nemo wasn’t dead. His Brobdingnagian archenemy – by whom Captain Nemo only knew as “B.D.C.” (Big Dumb Creature) – mistook Wifey for Nemo. Nemo wished their places had been switched.
BDC hadn’t always been so wickedly proficient. His early snares and traps were foolish and haphazard. Captain Nemo and his disciples laughed at him as they ate his lures with ease – free snacks – calling the befuddled human BDC for the first time.
But for all his folly, BDC’s was persistent. Incessant efforts finally turned deadly and Nemo began to lose friends – none so dear as Wifey. He reminisced of their whirlwind romance. One night on the kitchen counter with a cornucopia of crumbs and half-eaten cheeseburgers, Nemo and Wifey frolicked in warm sink water. “She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Nemo thought. Now she was gone. The void could only be filled by vengeance.
That night, Captain Nemo scurried through the well-worn wall paths to BDC’s room. He climbed the black steel bed-post and, with the might of a brawny .68oz house mouse, he took one (relatively) huge, juicy nibble of BDC’s toe. “Yowie!” screamed BDC.
—
Fred Grosvenor woke to a light pinch on his pinky toe. He threw off the covers, flailing wildly in the moonless darkness.
Captain Nemo was far too quick for Mr. Grosvenor’s groggy coordination and rage-blind instincts. He was off, but left a calling card – the subtle scratching of claws on dry plaster echoed his signature as Nemo scurried away into the darkness – Odysseus from his Polyphemus.
That sound plagued Mr. Grosvenor for months. Some cringe as a stainless steel fork screeches across a porcelain plate. Some wince when fingernails are draw across an old, dry blackboard. Fred Grosvenor didn’t cringe or wince to these sounds. The sound of Nemo’s inter-wall activities, however, drove Mr. Grosvenor to the point of insanity.
Fred Grosvenor couldn’t fall back to sleep that night. He tossed and turned – unsettled, unnevered – his fiendish mind galloping. He rose, sweating with bloodshot eyes, and set to work.
The next morning, the old hardwood floors of 242 Meeting Street were tiled wall-to-wall with sickly yellow “glue traps.” In his relentless frenzy, Mr. Grosvenor had done something that only a deranged maniac would do: overkill.
—
That night, perched atop a plush, brown-suede couch, Nemo surveyed BDC’s work with begrudging respect for his mortal enemy. He climbed across the radiator, behind the television, leap-frogged from beer can to beer can across the room, and back-flipped onto a small stained-wood coffee table in the middle of the living room. Nachos. Nice.
Nemo ate more than usual, placating hunger and grief with cold ground beef, crusty guacamole, and crushed tortilla chips. The gluttony wasn't enough to dampen his depression. He spied a half-full shot glass of amber liquid – a potent potion of whiskey and chemically-infused cinnamon. That might do the trick.
Nemo began with a wary sip. Liquid fire ravaged his throat and tiny stomach - a welcome burn. He took another, less hesitant sip. Each gulp further quelled his restless mind. Another... and another…
—
8 AM sunlight pierced through dusty windows. A groggy Nemo awoke on the coffee table spooning an overturned shot glass, empty but for the syrupy remnant of synthetic spirits. Exposed and vulnerable, Nemo cursed his carelessness and planned his escape through a sea of sticky death. Then, the grating creak of a BDC’s door – the human was awake. Time to act.
He dived off the table to a crushed Natural Lite can – his mongoose-like agility blurred by latent alcohol. As BDC rounded the corner, Nemo skidded into the temporary refuge of an overturned solo cup.
—
Fred Grosvenor was eager to examine his glue traps. To his dismay, no ensared mice. Instead, the remains of last night's nacho dinner were festooned across the coffee table. No ensnared mice, just a mess of Mexican food. Anger. He violently kicked a crushed beer can in disgust.
The aluminum projectile careened across the floor and upended Captain Nemo’s red plastic safe haven. The courageous mouse was ejected through the stale morning air and disastrously crash landed onto a lethal glue trap.
—
BDC squealed in shock at the airborne rodent. Shock quickly morphed into maniacal delight as he recognized his menace, Captain Nemo, now in the inexhaustible clutches of his deadly device. Nemo struggled to free himself to no avail. The glue stuck to his fur and gripped his claws – he was paralyzed.
The iconic leader of mus musculus lay tragically trapped in inescapable immobility. The radiator was a tantalizing yet impossible 12 inches away. 12 inches from another daring getaway. He continued unsuccessfully to urge his imprisoned body forward. Never say die.
—
Fred Grosvenor was euphoric. He dashed upstairs to wake his roommate. Mild-mannered Swift McVeigh groaned as he lifted his lids. “Ugh…what now, Fred?”
“Swift. I’ve done it. I’ve finally done it. I’ve killed him.” Mr. Grosvenor’s smile bubbled over futile attempts to maintain a straight face. Groggily, Swift followed him downstairs to the woeful stage. Where Grosvenor smiled, Swift frowned.
The once kingly mouse was rendered helpless, innocuous, immobile. The glue trap was too strong – death was certain. His spirit would soon extinguish. The inevitability of his looming departure from this earth would soon overwhelm his vitality.
—
Swift somberly withdrew a black Stinger P3ii 6mm Caliber airsoft pistol.
“What are you doing? Let him die!” yelled Fred Grosvenor.
“I am.”
Swift extended his arm. Gazing down the sight of his Stinger P3ii, he squeezed and a translucent plastic airsoft pellet ended it with a faint, spring-loaded ‘pop'. The noble mouse perished before the fight left him – he died Captain Nemo.
Swift McVeigh’s left eye welled and emitted a single tear. It trickled down his face and dropped on the floor, breaking the horrible, terrifying, silence. He looked up at the ceiling and yelled into the 9 AM morning light. It was a blood-curling howl that meant only one thing: tragedy.
“GROSSSSVEEEENNNNOOOOOOORRRRRRRRR!”