“Mouse in a box
Thinks he’s a fox,
But he’s just full of rage
living on life’s lousy wage.
’Cause the world ain’t cheese
And can’t say please!
Hey, nothing is a snap.
Look out, here comes the trap!
’Cause the world ain’t cheese
And can’t say please!
’Cause the world ain’t cheese
And can’t say please!
Look out, dudes, here comes the trap!”
The last line was repeated over and over again, with Dipstick and Lugnut joining in from time to time with their own close harmony.
Meanwhile, out on the floor, a fair number of mice had gotten up and started to dance. They were gyrating, some holding their paws up while they were turning, twisting, dipping, shaking, and hopping, with tails lashing about. Some mice even leaped straight up into the air above the crowd, squeaking and squealing as they came down.
And yet, as Ragweed looked on, there was hardly a smile in the crowd. The dancers didn’t look at one another, but appeared to be more deeply involved in the music than aware of their partners. Some had their eyes closed. Others stared fixedly up at the screen above or at their feet.
As Clutch sang on, Ragweed found himself timidly tapping out the beat with his toes.
Suddenly there was an enormous crash. The startled musicians stopped playing. The dancing ceased. Every mouse in the club turned in the direction of the noise. For a moment all was still. Then one of the club walls collapsed. Into the room burst Silversides’s face.
“Good evening, mice,” she said, grinning so that all her teeth were visible. “F.E.A.R. is here.”
CHAPTER 9
What Happened at the Cheese Squeeze Club
THE MICE STARED IN HORROR at Silversides’s face. The next moment, when the opposite wall fell in and Graybar’s eyes and whiskers appeared, chaos erupted.
The club was filled with squeaking, screaming, running, hopping, leaping mice, rushing as one toward the single available exit. But the opening was far too narrow to accommodate the crush. Mice were pushed, shoved, and trampled. Only a few managed to escape.
When the remaining mice tried to find another way out, they were confronted by the two cats calling out, “Cats rule! Mice out! Rodents retreat! Felines first!”
At first Ragweed was too bewildered to do anything but gape at the wild confusion before him. But when Graybar leaped into the middle of the milling mice and began pouncing and biting, a terrified Ragweed shrank back into a corner.
From there he looked toward the platform where the Be-Flat Tires had been playing. Dipstick was leaping straight up and down, squeaking raucous insults at the cats. Lugnut crouched behind his bass guitar as if it were a shield against possible attack. As for Clutch, she was holding her guitar by its neck, clearly willing to use it as a weapon. The look upon her face was nothing less than ferocious.
Two cats. Forty-five mice. Despite their numbers, the mice, overwhelmed by both the suddenness and ruthlessness of the cats’ attack, put up very little resistance. Instead they tried desperately to get away. The two cats, grinning and howling with glee, were catching and tossing mice about at will. One blow of a cat’s paw, and another poor mouse was either laid low or tossed across the room like a bean bag.
Not all the mice were so passive. When Clutch saw Silversides step on a young mouse’s tail and gradually draw her victim in, as if reeling in a fish, she leaped from the performance platform and, bent on rescue, dashed forward. Coming close to the cat, she hauled back her guitar and swung with all her might, smacking Silversides right on her nose. There was a loud plunk. The guitar strings snapped. The guitar shattered.
Taken by surprise, Silversides removed her paw from her victim’s tail and touched her nose to see if anything had broken. The freed mouse leaped away and was lost in the crowd.
Surprised as well as smarting, the white cat searched for her attacker. She did not have to look far. An irate Clutch stood before her, holding the fragmented instrument in her paws.
“Hey, you thick dude, why don’t you trash someone your own size!” she screamed with no apparent thought for her own safety. “Like, we’ve got just as much right to be here as you do! Know what I’m saying?”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying, you vulgar-mouthed vermin,” Silversides retorted. Shooting out a paw she smacked Clutch broadside, hurling the green-headed mouse back up against a wall. Clutch hit hard, slid to the floor, and lay motionless, eyes closed. Only her earring was moving, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
Ragweed—who had seen it all—gasped. He was sure Clutch had been killed.
Silversides seemed to think otherwise. Gathering herself up, she prepared to leap upon the mouse and deliver a finishing blow.
Clutch shook her head groggily and opened her eyes. She made an effort to rise but was apparently incapable of getting up. Silversides was grinning at her, ready to spring.
One moment Ragweed was relieved to see that Clutch was alive. The next moment he saw what was about to happen and was appalled. Barely thinking, he snatched up Clutch’s skateboard and ran to his new friend’s side.
Silversides, mouth open so wide her gullet was fully exposed, took a flying leap at Clutch. Ragweed lifted the skateboard over his head to
