The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Boskeopolis Stories: VENGEANCE IS A DISH BEST SERVED WITHOUT FOOD ON IT SO THAT SMOOTH PORCELAIN TEXTURE ISN’T RUINED BY ALL THAT HAIRY CHICKEN AND STUFF YUCK

She’d been thinking ’bout it for a while & decided that the gingerhaired thiefrat that Moneybags obsessed o’er would have to pay. She was thinking ’bout it while walking down Habanero Highway, which always reeked o’ gasoline on the desert afternoons, on a trip toward Verditropolis, which she was now thinking she’d have to postpone for a bit. She was in 1 o’ her millions o’ disguises, as she always was, & was on the move. She didn’t think she was wanted for anything, but there was no reason to stay in any place long ’nough to become wanted.

She kept eyes all round her: tho the rat didn’t seem dangerous, she knew her knowledge on the subject was short & stunted. Hell, based on what she knew, she ne’er would’ve guessed she could’ve been robbed.

She still wondered ’bout that, still rolled the memory thru her mind as if it’d just occurred. In the apartment that she rarely & temporarily called her home, nondescript, no different from the other thousands that infect the city, she was rummaging thru her bookcase where she hid most o’ her funds & noticed her funds missing. The books themselves were in the right place, down to the Talented Mr. Ripley being tilted gainst the right end; but the stacks of orange bills wrapped in rubber bands were nowhere in sight or sense.

For a second she wondered if she’d changed her hiding place & just forgot. She remembered well ’nough that changing hiding places was a common tactic she’d learned in her ol’ days in SOA. But, no, she knew she’d been robbed. She could feel it. She knew gut feeling was a big part o’ her “career”, & she could feel it stirring now.

’Course, since Madame Autumn Springer was her only victim who was a thief herself, she was the obvious 1st target. & while the rat was good ’bout keeping any hairs or fingerprints from leaving her trail, the rat’s clumsy method o’ research, which was just asking round the apartment complex for info, revealed her like blood still sticky on her hands.

Despite this fatal flaw, she had to admit the rat was rather clever. ’Course, that would only prove her own brilliance when she managed to shut the rat down.

Continue story…

Posted in Boskeopolis Stories, Short Stories