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Payback Squirrels
The nightmare… so horrifying. He had seen the last murder vicctim on his growing list being dug up by little squirrels,
thousands of the bastards. The buck toothed, shifty eyed rodents had torn into the ground like miniature steam
shovels, digging and digging and then dragging and dragging a woman named Tesla Angstroam out of the earth
and pine needles he had used to cover her the week before. They had dug her up and then they had moved her
mutilated, bloated, two hundred and seventy pound corpse thirty-five miles to a highway where they had
flagged down a police car, although, that hadn't been enough mischief for them either.
No, they had done far worse.
Once the officer had stepped out of his cruiser to look at Tesla's body, one of the squirrels had jumped up onto her naked,
ghoulish white stomach and spoken – its chitterry, squeaky, rodent voice undoing him completely: "O-ff-ice-r, her kee-ler.
He-e is e-e-n a house. E-e-t is down dare t-e-e-n miles!"
And then the beast had ratted him out even further by pointing its paw in the direction of his house.
But that was insane, he told himself.
A squirrel couldn't turn him in for killing a human being, actually a whole string of human beings,
and burying them in shallow graves. Squirrels were squirrels and they didn't communicate like that.
Squirrels were animals - really stupid animals - and they didn't report crimes, not even when the criminal
they wanted to bust had destroyed hundreds of their little food cache's by digging rows and rows of shallow graves.
Squirrels just didn't have the capacity.
Still though, he had seen them in the branches of the surrounding pines when he had buried Tesla. Some had
shrieked at him, and one had even run up on him and chattered like an angry mother.
Maybe that was why he had had the dream.
The chittering squirrel.
The dream had scared him so much that he had dug out all of his murder photos. Pictures lay all over his living room floor;
they were in the kitchen, they were everywhere, neatly placed on every flat surface and they displayed all of his victims,
all of which tipped the scale at over two hundred and fifty pounds – all peoople who reminded him of his hateful mother.
An army of squirrels couldn't have dragged one of them to the highway from the dark woodland where he had left them
taking the big dirt nap.
The only animals that could be interested in his victims now would be worms.
"I'm safe," he said. The photos were proof that rodentia couldn't
touch him.
Suddenly a voice coming to him through a bull horn.
"Mr. Jonathon Moorely. Please step out of your house with your hands up in the air."
He ran to a window to look outside and saw that a ring of police cars, snipers, reporters, detectives and others had set
up all around his house. They stood out there in the snowy street, some perched in bushes, others taking up vantage
points in his neighbor's lawns -- they knew! And when he looked toward the far side of his lawn to get a glimpse
of a pine tree there, he knew the squirrels had told them. He saw over fifty of them. They all stood stock still,
each perched only inches apart like a small crowd gathered to see a hanging.
"Bastards!" he yelled at them. He threw the front door open
and screamed for the benefit of the police, "They got nothing
on me! Squirrels can't move a body!"
After a moment of silence, the bullhorn replied: "We don't have a body, Mr. Moorely. We only have a finger found
on your doorstep by the postman this morning."
Wesley R. Irvin
Email: Wesley R. Irvin
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