Tales From A Tortured Mind

Of Mice And Other Camp NaNoWriMo Plagues On The Otherwise Healthy Brains Of Poor Writers Everywhere. 

It is June 3rd and I have only 657 words written towards Rebel Camp NaNoWriMo June Edition. The five different half-completed projects that were supposed to provide the forums for 50,000 new words this month are all utterly failing to inspire me. For now I am relying on random environmental input to provide prompts to get me going and writing something; anything. This could be dangerous:



Breach of Contract

Mickey looked tiredly about the judge’s chambers. He had an awful lot of books and they did not seem to Mr. Mouse that they must be terribly exciting books. They were mostly thick-spined, dusty and thoroughly uncolourful. Where was Mickey Mouse Goes To College or Mickey And Pluto At The Beach? It occurred to Mickey that the old dog may not truly be a fan.

“Mickey,” said the judge; a looming, loping Great Dane in tall white wig bent half-way toward the ground. “I can not grant you a divorce on the grounds that Minnie is crazy, at least not without sufficient psychiatric documentation.”

“I didn’t say she’s crazy!” snapped Mickey. “I said… She’s  fucking Goofy! Get the wax out!”

“Crazy, goofy - whatever. It makes no difference,” said the dog as he reached across his desk and lifted the lid off his Bobby Orr cookie jar. “Biscuit?” He pulled out a brown bone-shaped cookie and held it toward his diminutive guest.

“I said…” Mickey squeaked shrilly, “That Minnie has been fucking… Goofy! Goofy, the dog. They’ve been fucking. Having intercourse. She is engaging in promiscuous behaviour; committing adultery as it were, in strict contravention of our marriage contract. Get it?”

“Oh,” said the judge.

“And get that smelly thing out of my face.”

Judge Woofenstein withdrew the proffered biscuit and sniffed it, frowning.

“So let’s get this divorce thing done up real swift now. I got a hot little piggie waiting for me down at the marina and I’m bustin’ at the seams to get busy if you know what I mean.”

The judge did not react to this, cross-eyed with pleasure he was, as he wolfed down the biscuit himself.

“You got any cheese handy?”

“No,” said the dog between the licking of his lips. “Oh, wait.” He pulled open a drawer, shoved some briefs around, slammed it shut and pulled open another drawer. He shuffled some things about and pulled out a rubber duck. It’s head was half-chewed off. “A-ha!” Woofenstein cheered.  He then pulled out a chunk of white-and-green cheese and set it on the desk in front of Mickey.

“What the hell kind of variety is that?” squeaked Mickey.

“Blue cheese,” said the judge.

“What kind was it before that?”

“Cheddar.”

“Cool,” said Mickey. He picked up the morsel awkwardly with his three-fingered paw and gobbled it down in short order.

The judge helped himself to another biscuit and ate it noisily. They both slouched in their chairs then and rubbed their bulging bellies.

“She’s fucking Goofy?” said the judge. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Goofy? Our Goofy?”

“Yes! Do I have to paint you a picture!”

“Well, a photograph would be better. You’ll need some kind of evidence obviously.”

“I will?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m fucking Mickey Mouse, dog. I own this town. Who’s gonna call me a liar?” He sniffed his middle finger, examined it and then sucked it clean.

“You’re fucking who? Oh! You mean you ARE Mickey Mouse. Sorry. I see.”

Mickey glared at him. “I’m not sure you do see, dog. I’m not sure you’re up to this task. Frankly I’m not sure I’ve been backing the right judge. You’re either WITH Mickey Mouse or you’re AGAINST Mickey Mouse. There is no middle ground here. Am I being clear? Am I being perfectly pristinely crystal-freaking-clear here?”

“I’m with you Mickey. I’m with you. We’re cool.”

Mickey nodded. “Get that fucking thing out of my sight, will you. It’s disrespectful. What the hell would Donald say if he was here?”

The judge grabbed the half-chewed rubber duck and shoved it back into the drawer.

“Do I need a lawyer or what?” squeaked Mickey.

“I recommend it.”

“Okay. I’ll put Wyndworth on it. Between the two of you, can you handle it? I really have other affairs to concentrate on right now. This is the last fucking thing I needed right now, that BITCH!”

Judge Woofenstein nodded. “I’m sure Wyndworth can proceed without too much participation from you. It’s not that complicated a matter.”

“Right. He’ll be in touch then.” Mickey popped off the chair. “I’ll show myself out. Thanks for the cheese.”

“Yeah, uh - Mick, your ears.”

Mickey reached up and straightened his crooked ear-do before waving goodbye. He left the chamber without closing the heavy door behind him. The judge sighed. He grabbed a waste basket, went to the guest chair and brushed a few little dark pellets into the bucket.