Chapter 1: How to make an angry mouse even angrier

Squeaky was pissed.

He was really, really pissed. And by that, I mean pissed off, not pissed as a newt.

He wasn’t a newt anyway, so why would he as pissed as one? But if he were pissed, I’d just say he was pissed.

Still, I feel I have to qualify that Squeaky was hoppin’ mad, not drunk.

Rodentia had walked out again, long before they got the confession. They had been trying for years to get a squeak out of Rat Bow Wow, a gangster rapper who was also a plain old gangster rat. They were trying to pin down the most notorious of the Marsupopolis mafia, Claw “the Claw” Clarey. The way to Claw was through Rat Bow Wow…and through numerous other cronies too, but Rat Bow Wow was right here. He had all the latest gossip on Claw’s illegal dealings. But just having the guy in custody wasn’t enough. To get anything out of him, they needed Rodentia. Rodentia was the key to getting any of the mini-Claws to squeal. She’d been undercover for the last few months now, during which time she’d gathered a whole rotting pile of evidence to use against their quarry. She’d been extremely close to cracking the case.

And then she’d just walked out.

Luckily for her, none of the bad guys seemed to have thought anything of it. They had got to know a little bit of her real side during her stint as one of them, and one thing they had learned was that she liked to stalk off in a huff now and then. Squeaky just hoped they weren’t sharp-clawed enough to pick up on the changes the lady had been undergoing in the last few days. They had no clue, Squeaky told himself fervently, that she was playing them all for a bunch of rat-damned fools.

Still, right now Squeaky was the one who had been made to look like the fool, and Rodentia really had it coming when he got his paws on her.

“I have an appointment,” she’d said with a roll of the eyes and a flick of the tail. Her ears had twitched, too. She had glared at him and added, “Don’t even get me started on how much overtime I’ve done this week.”

And with a final twitch of her nose she’d scuttled out.

So yeah, the case was stalled yet again, Rodentia was the Mouse of Marsupopolis knew where, and Squeaky was, let me repeat, severely pissed.

Rodentia sighed with pleasure as the breeze blew through her fur. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier?

The turn-off to the Whiskerport appeared and the ratzi-driver took it. Rodentia would usually keep a close eye on the metre to see how much she’d have to pay the driver, but she was too giddy to care right now. Talk about a spontaneous change of plans!

She almost giggled as the ratzi-cab pulled up outside the Whiskerport and the spotted mouse behind the wheel twisted around and squeaked, “Sixty-nine fifty-three thanks. Will you need change?”

“Yes, you cat food idiot,” Rodentia responded cheerfully as she handed over a fifty and a seventy. “I’m not rat-damned Ratdonna you know.”

A plane was waiting to take her to paradise.

Squeaky snapped his claws together and Evelyn Possumly hurried into the room after him, sneaking up gingerly beside him as if fearing he would cut sick on her.

“Mr. McLean, are we having tea?” Evelyn asked, as nervous then as she had been on the day his assistant hired her.

“No rat-damned tea,” Squeaky muttered. “You get hold of Raines yet?”

Evelyn shook her head fearfully. “Sorry, sir – she’s MIA. Or that’s what her new squeak-message says.”

Squeaky rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Rat-damn it, what’s a mouse got to do to get some rat-damned loyalty around here?”

“Sir,” Evelyn said timidly, like the most timid mouse Squeaky had ever known, “is there anything I can do? Somebody else I should call–?”

“Yeah,” Squeaky snapped, “as a matter of fact – call that piece of rat fur Missy Rattingham and tell him I’m gonna singe him real good if he doesn’t get down here STAT!”

“Y-yes, s-s-sir,” Evelyn squeaked, and scurried out of the room.

“Rat-damned interns,” Squeaky muttered to himself, wondering how long Evelyn had to go with her placement as he chewed on some fresh ratbacco.

Mississauga Rattingham strode into the office, sitting immediately down on the chair in front of Squeaky’s desk. He lounged there as if he had not a care in the world, and actually looked bored. Squeaky detested the man, but had to test out a few theories, and so there was no choice but to face him.

The Sheriff looked at Squeaky and away from him, obviously considering the mouse to be of an inferior species. Rattingham was the kind of guy who thought everyone was inferior to him, even if they were his own kind. Squeaky just watched him thoughtfully. Inside he was fighting off the urge to strangle the Sheriff, but outwardly he was calmly contemplative. And he knew that he’d break the Sheriff in the end. It was only a matter of time.

Squeaky watched, and Rattingham pretended not to care, and they spent about fifteen minutes doing this. Finally, Rattingham snapped, just like Squeaky had known he would. He snapped in a very quiet and subtle way, but he snapped nonetheless. And he tried to make it seem as if he hadn’t snapped. He tried to make it seem as if he’d simply opted to start speaking – he was oh so casual about it all.

“What brings me to these parts, Squeaky?” he asked, still looking bored. But Squeaky could see deep into his inner core, and he knew the guy was agitated, annoyed and frustrated. Squeaky enjoyed every moment of it.

Squeaky shrugged. “Basically, Ratto, I want some help with some rather…sensitive issues…and I know you’ll be happy to help me out. I mean, you and me – we go way back, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rattingham responded irritably, “but what’s that got to do with anything? I don’t owe you a thing, McLean.”

“Well, now,” Squeaky responded, “I’m not sure I’d say that was true. I mean…we’ve been through so much…seen so much together.”

If Rattingham didn’t pick up on that hint, then he’d need to be hit with a sledgehammer of a clue instead. Squeaky had many sledgehammers up his sleeves – so to speak – and he wasn’t worried. Besides, he didn’t really want anything from Rattingham – nothing physical that he could hand over, anyway. He just wanted a reaction.

Squeaky said, “I wouldn’t like to take advantage of your…kindness,” his mousebrows furrowing slightly, “but a mouse’s gotta do what a mouse’s gotta do – you know how it is, right Ratto?”

Rattingham struggled to look bored still, but he was fighting that battle. He was clearly nervous, and Squeaky didn’t even have to have any dirt on him – he just had to make the 

guy think he had something. It was so rat-damned easy that Squeaky marvelled at Rattingham’s simplicity.

Rattingham said bluntly, “What do you need?” Clearly all pretence of boredom had been discarded in an instant.

“I need some info on one well-known character in some recent battered ratteries,” Squeaky said. “I’ve noticed lately that there’s a surprising dearth of paperwork being generated, and even the stuff we’ve got stored sometimes goes walkabout. Have you noticed anything like that, Ratto?”

Rattingham had always hated that nickname. Squeaky loved to use it at every opportunity, because anything he could do to unsettle Missy was going to work to his own advantage.

“Uh,” Rattingham said, seeming to hesitate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”

Squeaky gave him a look that said, ‘Come on now, don’t be shy!’ and he knew that Rattingham would get even more annoyed by the condescension. Squeaky revelled in this game.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of a little fella called Rat Bow Wow?” Squeaky inquired. “The files I’m after are on him.”

“I don’t know no Rat Bow Wow,” Missy defended.

“Well, maybe you know him by a different name?” Squeaky was stepping into dangerous territory here, but he forged ahead like the bravest intrepid explorer. “For instance, I hear he calls himself RBW a lot of the time.”

“I believe it’s Rat BW,” Rattingham corrected. Squeaky’s mousebrows rose now. So the guy had never heard of Rat Bow Wow, but had heard of Rat BW? Most interesting…

Rattingham knew he’d stepped in it, so he hastily added, “I’ve got a lotta contacts – they know shit. You know…they’re nuts ‘n bolts men, really on the ball.”

“You mixing metaphors again, Ratto?” Squeaky asked, inwardly amused and triumphant all at once. Outwardly he was just being a bastard. “You know how it makes you look.”

“Hey, I pay my taxes too you know,” Rattingham responded, frowning. “Besides, this city needs me – they can’t do it without me. I’ve had so many offers your head’d explode to hear all about ‘em. I could be earning double what I earn now – I’ve had so many offers.”

Squeaky was taken aback, to say the least. Rattingham’s rambling was a clear sign that the Sheriff was coming unhinged. He felt the desperate need to defend himself and reassure himself that he wasn’t completely ratted if he got deposed as Sheriff in Marsupopolis. Next he’d probably bring out the martial arts secret.

“You know,” Rattingham said in a lowered voice, “You’d best keep this to yourself, but…I’ve done martial arts.” He held up his front paws and said, “Lethal weapons.”

Squeaky nodded, pretending to be interested – and doing it in an obviously fake way. He also made a point of not speaking yet. Old Ratto was doing enough speaking for the both of them.

“You know, I served in Ratnam – I’m not just saying that either. I had medals but they were stolen years ago – never did catch the bastards who took ‘em. Some people are just jealous, y’know? And some people just can’t mind their own business. I’m always working with idiots. I always have to take over, you know – pick up their slack.” The rat held up his 

hands again. ”Just remember – lethal weapons, McLean. Just watch yourself. And if that Rat Bow Wow thinks he can pull the wool over my eyes, well he’s got another—”

Squeaky’s heart sang for he’d cracked this bitter old nut at long last. And he hadn’t even had to bring out the big guns – stories from Rattingham’s unfortunately embarrassing primary school years – to do it. He considered this a massive victory.

He now knew that Rattingham and Rat Bow Wow had been up to something.

And he now wished more than anything that his rat-damned fool of a partner hadn’t run off to some tropical island when they were days away from breaking open the big case.

“You just remember something,” Rattingham said, and his tone of voice had changed in such a way that Squeaky felt sudden dread. “I’m not a rat-damned fool. I know what kind of shit you’re up to, McLean. I know the people you’ve been meeting with – I know all about your little side projects.”

Squeaky actually had no idea what Rattingham was talking about, but he felt nervous nonetheless.

“And you better watch yourself, McLean. These aren’t my only lethal weapons.” He was holding up those rat-damned paws again. Squeaky wanted to gnaw them off to the wrist stumps! But he was nervous too, because he suddenly had the suspicion that Rattingham was threatening him with something more than just phantoms. Was Rattingham going to try and set Squeaky up, frame him?

The last thing he needed as the Sheriff of Marsupopolis on his case.

Claw had been a severely unwelcome pain in Squeaky’s own furry little backside for a very long time – far too long. Squeaky didn’t like to think back on all the time he had had over the last few years to catch the beady-eyed bastard in one of many rat-traps, But he couldn’t help looking back, particularly on nights like this when things had got so severely ratted up the ying yang.

Squeaky didn’t know what Claw’s deal was, but the guy was one seriously bitter feline. He had issues, as the saying went. He had probably had a traumatic childhood, Squeaky didn’t know. All he knew was that Claw liked to make trouble. The big cat had a few enemies in particular that he loved to toy with, the way a cat toys with a…well you get the idea. It so happened that Squeaky was one such enemy, a wily mouse detective with a serious attitude – at least towards those who tried to prey on the innocent. Squeaky just had no respect for that kind of shit. He was a fine detective, not to mention a rat-damned legend in the ten pin-bowling hall, but most of all everybody knew him as a humanitarian. He was a champion for all sorts of causes, and he considered his everyday job to be a good place to make his positive mark on society. Claw didn’t like the way Squeaky operated, doing good and all that. Claw couldn’t understand it, he couldn’t relate. And he couldn’t tolerate it.

All this meant that Squeaky attracted some very unwanted attention, in the form of Claw’s wrath.

Just to clarify, Squeaky had no problem with cats as a rule. They stayed out of his way, he stayed out of theirs, and everybody got along. He actually had a few deals that ensured he wouldn’t become some feline’s latest snack. He knew a lot of lawyers in Marsupopolis and beyond, really talented lawyers, and the ones who had a conscience too. He was pretty proud of his mates. And in return for his life, he fixed up many a cat with good lawyers in their times of need.

Still, there were some cats Squeaky just couldn’t abide…

Claw was the cream of the crop when it came to bad cats, and Squeaky had been number one on his hit list for a long time. It was almost as if Squeaky was the leader of this city or something, and Claw was the resident villain. Technically only the second half of that little story was true. Everybody knew Claw, even though he went by different names in different circles. But Squeaky was largely unknown, a hero working behind the scenes towards the betterment of society. Still, Claw seemed to consider Squeaky of particularly great inconvenience to him, and as such Squeaky had to be really careful.

Squeaky knew a lot of good cats. He even worked with a few, down at the Eastern Marsupopolis PD. Claw on the other hand was one of those barbaric cats still living in the dark ages even today, when there were Cat and Mouse Social Clubs all over the country and interaction between the races was encouraged and, often, celebrated. Claw adhered proudly to the old school of thought that said cats and mice should be enemies, and that, in essence, cats should shred mice at every opportunity. In fact, in the Creed of Higher Whiskered Brethren, which had been outlawed, but which small pockets of society still followed, one of the top ten Guidelines to Better Ratting advised that the good cat, the cat who would get into cat heaven that is, would be “the cat who tears to bloody tatters any member of the sub-par whiskered species, with special attention paid to the mice vermin who have caused felines so much grief”. Quite apart from the fact that being classed as a Rat (i.e. the Guide to Better Ratting) quite offended Squeaky and others of his kind, this guideline was understandably quite offensive in other ways. For one, cats once assumed (and clearly some still did) that they were above every other whiskered people. For another, cats had once revelled in the notion (and, of course, some still did) of murdering untold numbers of mice just because it was how things should be.

Mice had spoken of the Guide to Better Ratting and the Creed in general with dread since the beginning of time – that’s what baby mice were taught, at least. They were taught never to name the Creed out loud, just in case they caught its attention. They were also taught never to name any of the five infamous Master Bad Cats who had written the Creed. Those cats were to mice like serial killers were to their victims and intended victims: seriously nauseatingly scary.

Still, a lot of time had passed since the days when the Creed was written, and Squeaky liked to think that most cats had moved on with the times. He knew for a fact that there were numerous spokescats who denounced the Creed, and any who still insisted on following it. Many modern cats saw Claw, for example, as a barbarian of the highest order. There were even cat marches, which attracted many from the anti-Claw portions of the population, and their banners always reflected the outrage that more decent members of feline society felt.

Well, almost always. There were, of course, pro-Claw supporters out to sabotage the good will of the Cats for Peace Amongst the Whiskered Brethren Council, but most of the time the government didn’t dare to openly support these pests. The government wasn’t supposed to support Claw either, but of course there was corruption.

Squeaky got mad every time he thought about it. But it wasn’t like he could forget about it. He lived with it every day.

And if he thought his current troubles were bad, he had no idea what he was in store for. There were numerous more complications lurking around the corner, set to make Squeaky’s life that bit more irritating.

Such was life in Marsupopolis and its outlying sibling cities.

Squeaky was trying to drown the memory of his encounter with the Sheriff of Rattingham in a great deal of paperwork, when he heard a faint scratching at his office door.

“Sir?” Evelyn said quietly from the other side of the cracked door, clearly as reluctant as ever to come near him. She was over there, hovering in the doorway, as if poised to flee at the first sign of danger to her person.

“What?” Squeaky asked irritably, not looking up from his paperwork.

Evelyn cleared her throat. “We’ve, um… We’ve got word about Ms. Raines.”

Squeaky looked up, his gaze sharp. “Well?”

Evelyn fidgeted. “She’s um…she’s on an international flight – boarded an hour and a half ago.”