Billy shot out of the front door like a torpedo from a nuclear sub, images of the latest video game still flashing before his eyes.
“Bugger, missed him,” growled the Troll.
“You weren’t paying attention again, were you?” purred Mr Tubbs whilst absently licking a paw.
Hidden deep within the thick Hebe, the Troll scowled and said nothing.
“It’s the twenty-first century,” picked up the cat. “You’ve got to be a lot quicker if you want to eat them now, they’re never young for long. I’ve even noticed a difference in the mice lately. Anyway, I thought you used to hide under beds or in wardrobes waiting for the little brats?”
“Times have changed. These days I can’t even get under a bed or in a wardrobe, they’re always too full,” the Troll said miserably whilst wiping a large globule of snot from the end of his nose. “I might even eat the mother; there’s a bit of meat on her but I bet it’s tough as old boot leather.”
“You’ll still have to be quick to catch her, look there she goes off for her early morning jog.” The last word sounded more like ‘gob’ as the cat brought up an enormous fur ball.
“Sackcloth’s,” exclaimed the Troll as Mrs Scuttle ran past in grey flannel jogging bottoms. “I’ve missed her now through your chat, cat. So tell me about these mice then, since I’ve missed both of them.”
“Well, recently I’ve been hunting with Murphy from next door and we’ve noticed that they’ve suddenly become a pack animal. I know it sounds crazy but they’re now predators hunting in gangs. Murphy and I had a really narrow escape a couple of nights ago when we’d accidentally got ourselves locked in the garage with no way out. There must have been at least forty of the bleeders, and the only thing that saved us was being able to sit on the chest freezer. It was the only thing they couldn’t climb. I mean, we may not have always seen eye to eye but there really is no need for that kind of behaviour. They had a look in their beady little eyes that made me feel like they’d tear us limb from limb.”
“So what did you do?”
“The only thing we could do, sat it out until old Scuttle opened the garage the next morning to get his moped. Then we ran for it, but it was touch and go.”
The troll scratched his armpit; disturbed a couple of flies and with a flick of the wrist grabbed one between two filthy thick nails. Popping it into his mouth he looked thoughtfully at his worn old boots.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” he said, fiddling with his braces.
“You know what you should do, don’t you?” said the cat, rubbing his whiskers.
“No, tell me.”
“Hide behind the settee, the last bastion of the thing in the closet.”
“Why the settee?” asked the Troll, his interest picking up.
“It’s the only place where they sit still for long enough, that’s why. You can take your pick then, even have the mother if you want. It’s also the only place that isn’t full of the usual crap they fill their squalid little homes with.”
“Gumboils,” exclaimed the Troll, “you’re right.” And with that, he shot out a stubby arm, grabbing the cat by the throat.
“Hey, what are you doing?” squealed the cat.
“I’ve got my appetite back, and as the family won’t be home until late this afternoon, I’m taking an early lunch.”
And with that he began peeling the fur back as if it were some black and white banana.
“You know” he said to no one in particular, “I could even get use to things in wrappers!”
Copyright © 2003 by Nigel Whitmore