Sure enough, a mouse is loose. Runs behind the jukebox. Patrons scream. Asses big and small shake the stools. Shots are downed. Eyes look left and right. Where there is one, there are many.
This requires action. Flush the intruder out. Choose U2 on the jukebox. Bono will drive the beastie forth. No luck, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Play Sinatra, the Rat Pack. This mouse will do it his way. Read Steinbeck through a megaphone, and blast the pest’s best laid scheme.
Nothing.
The night moves on. The shouts of drunks. The crack of pool balls. Viva Las Vegas on the jukebox. The mouse plays his card, and runs for the Exit. Patrons scream. I give chase but I’m no cat. The scarpering villain slips under the door, and bolts into the street dodging bus wheels and Uber drivers, making it to the concrete shore of safety on the other side.
I salute you, mouse. You made it out alive. With or without you, I go back and pour whisky into livers. No escape for them.
