Mouse of Mu 3

By John W Partington

Before Jake & Chearice fought sentient cell phones and self-aware computer programs, there was Mouse. Before there was Mouse there was Xavier Culpeper: orphan, street-fighter, car thief, drug mule, and other jobs in-between. Sentenced to life-time internment as a soldier he seeks a way to extend his years beyond the scope of the nine lives he’s allotted. Immortality comes with a price, and moral ambiguity that may be too much for Xavier to withstand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Partington
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989973189

John W Partington

I have been writing for most of my life: as a child, as a soldier, and now as an independent author. My favourite colour is purple. I have two cats, who choose to annoy me most when I am trying to write. I'm a middle aged white dude suffering from psychosis, but with medication am perfectly stable (except for singing to my cats).

Book preview

Mouse of Mu 3

John W Partington

Copyright © 2021 John W Partington

ISBN: 9781989973189

Cover art © https://www.123rf.com/photo_132932494_astronaut-cat-wearing-space-suit.html

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Any similarity to persons or cats, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Stuff about the author

Also by John W Partington

Author’s Note

This is the origin story for Mouse. If you haven’t read the Jake & Chearice series, you might not know about inter-dimensional travel or the residents of a thousand different Earths. Mouse is from Mu-Three. This dimension is populated by three-foot-tall cats who walk around on their hind legs with fully articulate hands. They discovered inter-dimensional travel about ten thousand years before Humans did. At one point they came to our Earth, built the pyramids, and were then slaughtered by humans. Our current four-legged pets are their devolved descendants.

Acknowledgements

There are several people I would like to thank in the production of my twelfth story. There’s my editing team: Lori Holloway, Sarah Clarke, and Gerry Kroll, who transformed rough ideas and scratches into something better. I’d also like to thank my smokin’ hot wife for saying something to the effect You should write Mouse’s origin story. Finally, I have to thank my two cats, Nelson & Ricky, for allowing me to work some writing time into their busy snuggling/feeding/napping-with-Dad schedules.

A special acknowledgement goes out to Catharine Lynch (Wylde) for the use of her name in the story. In the summer/fall of 2020 I was involved in the Government of Canada Workplace Charitable Campaign. It’s valuable work that raises money for charity to be used in the neighbourhood where the money is raised. I offered the option of naming a character in Mouse of Mu 3, as an auction item. Catharine’s generosity was such that she got to name a character for herself and her son, Atticus.

Chapter One

Grandfather Mouse, tell us the story of the Undying Soldier and the lords of time.

Well, I’ll tell you the tale of Lazarus and the soldiers, but I think you made that second part up. Now listen closely my kittens, for this affects you deeply. You are all my descendants, so the blood that runs through me runs through you. My real name is Xavier Culpeper, and the tale I am about to tell you will most likely result in my death if it got out. And not just my death, but all our deaths. So, listen quietly but pay attention. You will become the living record of what transpired all those years ago.

Tell us, the kittens squeal.

You’re excited now, but when you know the full truth of your origins you may wish to forget. The occasion of my birth was a happy one. My parents were infertile, so unable to have kittens. They had sex—a lot of furniture breaking sex— and they had me. Not a litter of kittens, just me. I was their pride and joy. My parents were well-to-do, as they say. I was well educated and cared for, and I attended the best schools and had the utmost in opportunities until I was a sprite not much older than any of you are now.

What happened? asks one of the kittens.

My parents died. I was a little over a year old and I thought I was old enough to get on in the world by myself. I was at the end of adolescence, but an army of lawyers, social workers, well-wishers, and scoundrels descended on me. They all wanted money. They all wanted to protect my inheritance, to tax it, to invest it, and to embezzle it. It was never about protecting me; it was about the money.

How did your parents die?

Lead poisoning.

From paint?

From bullets. They were assassinated in front of me by a couple of cats, and despite my mews for help, no one came until it was too late. All I remember is a one-eyed tabby the second assassin called Atticus. Instead, when I was home with my extended family, people came after my money. I was sent to my room while the adults decided my fate. That was when I decided I would not be a puppet with no control over my life."

What did you do? a round-eyed kitten asks.

I ran away. That is where my story really starts. So, get comfortable, and I will tell you a tale of both triumph and tragedy, of humour and horror. This is a story that spans lifetimes and connects everything together under the banner of the Undying Soldier.

Xavier! a feminine voice shouted from somewhere down the hallway.

It sounded like Aunt Bonnie, but I couldn’t be certain. They all sounded the same as I lay in my closet. One part greed mixed with sympathy, concern, syncopation, and jealousy. That’s my family.

Xavier, she called again.

The light pad of her feet could be heard on the hardwood. There was a creak as my bedroom door opened. I heard the sound of someone rummaging through drawers—because obviously I could hide in a drawer half my size—then the rustling of bed sheets, and finally the closet door opened.

There you are, Xavier. Aunt Bonnie looked down at me.

She was a stern orange tabby that was slowly turning grey. She wasn’t old, but gingers always faded quickly. Or so I’d been told.

Come, Xavier. We’re going to be late for the funeral.

I don’t want to go, I grumbled.

Xavier, please. They were your parents.

"They are my parents! I shouted. Stop referring to them in the past tense like they never mattered. You’re not my mother, you never will be!"

I’m not trying to be your mother. Aunt Bonnie raised her brows. I loved my sister, we’re family. Somebody has to take care of you.

I can take care of myself. I’m almost an adult.

Adults don’t hide in closets when the going gets rough, she sneered. Now, get your ass out of the closet and into the fucking car. We’re going to the funeral. You will pay your respects, otherwise people will talk.

Let them talk, I sulked.

It’s never a good thing to have people talk. A group of gossiping cats is worse than a circle of fish mongers. Get in the car.

Fine! I prowled to my feet. You’re not the boss of me!

That will be decided tonight at the reading of the will. Your parents were good people, Xavier, they didn’t leave you without provisions. They had plans in place. I might very well be the boss of you or I might not be. Either way, you will paw-up to the line and start behaving appropriately. What we’re going through is hard enough without a surly grey tabby ruining everything by sulking. You’ve always been spoiled. It’s time to get over yourself.

It rained on the ride to the cemetery, but the rain turned into a fine drizzle before the proceedings. That was good for me. More rain meant fewer spectators. Cats hated rain, but drizzle was worse. It was like rain that never ends, suspended in the air like a choking fluid. As it drizzled, droplets of moisture formed on Aunt Bonnie’s fur. I could tell she was aching to wipe them away but wanted to stay dignified in her black dress even as it became coated with beads of iridescent silver.

I didn’t like formal clothes. They were restricting, uncomfortable, and hot. I had mostly been left to roam around in shorts and a vest. Clothing wasn’t necessary for a cat, but pockets were useful. In the polydactyl world, pockets were king. You could fit lots of stuff in a vest with pockets; bits of twine, nip, knives, cash. Anything a cat would need.

Pockets were great. Funerals weren’t.

My parents’ ashes were placed in decorative cardboard urns which were then buried. A bush was planted in the fresh soil. I stood there for a long time. I just stood in dumbstruck silence. My life, as I knew it, was over.

It’s time to go, Xavier, Aunt Bonnie announced.

We were the only ones left. Even the priest and the caretaker had gone. How long had I stood there looking at a bush that marked the earthly remains of my parents? I looked at my watch. Aunt Bonnie had let me stew in misery for almost ninety minutes in the drizzle. That was the last thing I remembered about Aunt Bonnie. She didn’t rush, chide, or console me. She just let me be.

When Aunt Bonnie and I got back to the house, everybody was there. My aunts and uncles, cousins and well-wishers, scoundrels, and of course, the lawyers. We all ate dinner like it was a cocktail party, standing around with catered food on paper plates. Meanwhile, the kittens played in the garden. They thought it was a party but they didn’t know whose. Cat families tended to be large and somebody was always having a birthday. They were innocent, and they were happy. I envied them. The daylight started to dwindle and the youngsters drooped into naps when Aunt Bonnie came to find me.

It’s time, she announced.

Can I go to my room? I asked.

Don’t you want to find out? Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen?

Just have whoever’s in charge tell me when it’s over.

I turned towards the stairs and went up to the second level. Once I got to my room, I pulled a backpack down from the back of my closet. I figured it would take thirty minutes for them to read and discuss the last will and testament. I planned to be gone in twenty. In the backpack I had a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and whatever cash was on hand. Dad always said to put money aside for a rainy day. I used to think it was a metaphor until the sky cracked lightning and thunderheads loomed as I opened the second story window and climbed down the ivy trellis.

Who would be in charge of me?

I didn’t learn until much later in life when it no longer mattered. If I had stuck around, I would have discovered that the best possible person had been chosen to be in charge of my life. But instead, I bolted, and my life took a different route.

Chapter Two

The first couple of weeks on my own were rough. I didn’t know the rules of the street or how to associate with my fellow vagrants. At the time it seemed unfair that I became a street cat. My parents were struck down when other cats lived happy lives without conflict. I considered going somewhere else to start over. I knew of dimensional travel and the Department of Inter-dimensional Affairs, but I never paid it any mind. I conserved my money by not going anywhere that I could be traced. I didn’t stay in motels, shop at grocery stores, or eat in restaurants. All of these were things that spontaneous run-aways did. Instead, I ate out of restaurant dumpsters with all the other homeless cats. I tried to blend in.

I was lucky. When the police rounded us up I obviously didn’t belong. I looked moderately clean, healthy, and relatively well fed. They told me to go home. By the time I looked the part of a street cat, I had learned how to evade the police and watch out for signs of danger. It was the school of hard knocks. Within two months I ran out of money for necessities like toothpaste. For food, I hunted small game like mice and birds. Mu-Three’s earth had plentiful game.

I was young then, and I thought I was tough and scrappy. It didn’t matter that I had no home because it was better to live on the street than to live under the thumb of relatives that never loved me.

One night, I had Italian—the finest marinara and pasta to be thrown out from an upscale restaurant. Myself, and about ten cats, circled the alley waiting for the bus boy to finish his cigarette. The owner knew we ate there but he didn’t like it known. So, he guarded the dumpster on a casual basis. Eventually, the server went inside as the lights started to blink out. I managed to score a large meatball with only a few bites out of it as well as some coffee grounds when I felt a sharp pain in my side.

The wound itself was superficial. It had been more of a slice and shock than stab and die. I dropped the meatball so that the vagrant with the knife went for it instead of finishing me. Then I lashed out and kicked the cat with the knife in the stomach. He doubled over and I backhanded him across the side of his face. I reversed the stroke and left a deep slash from my claws across his cheek. The meatball landed in a pile of goo at the feet of another cat. This new cat was larger and older than I, but he seemed entertained watching me beat the cat with the blade. When my opponent refused to get up, I could rest.

The older cat pointed at the gooey meatball.

You going to eat that?

And that was how I met Trinacy.

Trinacy’s street name was ‘Trinasty’. He was a couple of years older than I and had been on the streets since he was my age. For whatever reason, he took me under his paw and showed me how to make the most of the least. He knew how to work being homeless. The key, I learned, was being clean. If I kept clean, people might assume that I was poor, maybe, or a labourer, but not homeless.

Keeping clean meant I could go into a business office and make phone calls by pretending to be a lost courier. I didn’t have anybody to call but it was nice to have the option. Pizza Fridays? I became the guy from Filing. Every section has a Filing guy that nobody recognizes. All the Filing personnel already there? Then I became the new guy. Nobody ever asked where I came from or what division I was new to. The trick was being clean and never showing up at the same business twice.

After four months of living on the streets a hard edge materialized on my body. I became strong and lean. I ate well by making the most of gullible businesses, and I knew where to find the best dumpsters. The best dumpster wasn’t at the most popular restaurant but at the one that was frequented by the fewest hobos. Having a little selection from a lot of food was better than having a smorgasbord where I had to watch my back for a shiv and share with thirty other cats.

One morning, Trinacy showed up outside the box I called home. I liked cardboard boxes. Hell, what cat doesn’t like a good box? I fit; I sit. That’s the rule. On the street a good cardboard box was like a mobile home; you always move to a new location every night then fold it up and hide it during the day while you panhandle. It had to be an industrial cardboard box with the waxy finish to be any good against rough weather. The kind of box a refrigerator came in worked best. One morning, around the four months on the street mark, Trinacy knocked on my box.

Hey, Zave, Trinacy started. "How are you doing for money?’

I got none, I said.

I had some but not much. Life on the streets taught me that having no money meant I wasn’t a target for bullies and thugs. Trinacy was like a friend but I had no doubt that he would stick a knife in my stomach if I had enough coin to warrant it. ‘No’ was always the best answer for most situations.

Want some? he asked.

You’re going to give me money? That seemed more charitable than I expected.

No. He laughed. There was the magic word. We have an opportunity. There’s a new pit on the other side of town. Nobody will know us there. We fight, I go down, we split the money.

Split the money how? I narrowed my eyes.

Fifty-fifty. We’ll have to work up the pit, so you might take a couple of beatings. Me too, but in the end, we can net some serious coin. What do you say?

I’m in.

Serious coin was vague term on the street but if Trinacy thought it was a good idea, I would go along with it. Young and foolish meets strong and stupid. It was the perfect combination for gladiator pit fighting.

A week later I was trapped in a cliché. I found myself down by the docks waiting to fight in a makeshift arena built of shipping containers and chicken wire. There were six containers; three on each side to form a crescent with two gaps between them. Across from me in the other crescent gap waited a lethal-looking black cat. More cats, the gamblers, perched on top of the sea containers on makeshift benches. We were pit fighters but the pit was built up instead of dug down.

On the right side of the Horrendous Hexagon we have John ‘Ninja’ Maxwell! Three-time winner by knock out, the tuxedo-haired announcer introduced my opponent. On the left we have Zave the Brave in his debut match. Is he strong? Is he fast? He looks to be both but he could be neither. Place your bets! You have three minutes!

Ninja looked ready to fight, and I felt ready to pee. He had bandanas of red and blue wrapped around each arm and thigh but otherwise he looked unadorned. All I had was my fur and my claws. I felt ready to fight but I should have hit the litter box beforehand.

How are you doing, newcomer? A fat, greasy tabby waddled up to me.

Okay, I shrugged.

Are you feeling nervous?

No. I feel fine.

Listen, John’s my boy. I’ve got a lot running on this match, so I want you to throw the fight.

What? I asked.

Take a dive. I’ll make it worth your while.

What? No.

Listen, Zave. There are all sorts of ways to win or lose fights around here. You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot when you could make something of yourself in the long run by taking a dive now. I’m grooming Ninja for the professional league. You could be next. Just think about it.

The fight’s about to start, I said, closing the matter.

At least, I thought it was closed.

On the count of three, two cats enter, one cat leaves, the referee shouted. He wasn’t really a referee since referees make sure the fights are fair. Here only the law of the jungle existed. Whoever was left standing won. One! Two! Three! Fight!

Ninja leapt into the air and was halfway across the arena by the time I got my second step into the Hexagon. He fell on me like an avalanche of cinder blocks. His fist went slamming into my left cheek as his rear talons raked against my stomach. He was fast and strong, but I was young and tough. Plus, I had thick fur so his rear paws got caught in the matting rather than ripping me open. I swung both arms around to crush the sides of his abdomen. Ninja screamed in pain as I followed up with a headbutt to his chest. The headbutt didn’t hurt him but it knocked him back.

We circled each other. I was half-blind as my cheek swelled over my eye and Ninja nursed internal bruises. I took each step with an anchor tied to my foot. Gamblers shouted demands while the stakes grew higher.

Ninja rushed at me and we locked arms in a throw-hold. I spread my stance wide so I couldn’t be thrown. Ninja did the same. Our heads mashed against each other and I thought he was going to bite my ear.

Instead, he whispered to me, When do you want to go down? His voice sounded timid in my ear.

I’m not throwing the fight, I told him.

I don’t want to do this the hard way. I don’t want to be tired and sore by the end of the night. I thought Sam talked to you.

Sam talked. I didn’t listen.

So, this is a real fight?

You know it is, I snarled.

Fine!

Ninja broke the hold by pushing my arms down in a windmill and continued through to slam both fists together in an overhead chop to the back of my neck. I fell to the ground and was thrashed by kicks to the stomach and the head. After being kicked half a dozen times, I managed to get to my paws.

I never saw the punch coming but I felt it on my left eye. I went down and I didn’t get up.

I came to sometime later. Trinacy held a vial of smelling salts under my nose. I woke with a sputtering cough, releasing a spout of blood onto the infirmary floor. It wasn’t a real infirmary, just the inside of one of the containers used to form the pit. I could hear the fighting outside.

You did great, Zave. Trinacy smiled.

I lost, I sighed.

In your first fight, probably your first fight ever, to a guy named Ninja. You did okay. Do you feel like doing a second fight tonight?

There was an eagerness in his voice I didn’t like. I was a means to an end, not a friend. There may have been comradery but to Trinacy, I was a disposable resource.

Not tonight, I said. Not until I heal my eye. I can’t see out of it with it swollen shut.

That’s true. Rest up. You deserve it. I’m going to watch the rest of the fights while I wait for my turn.

How are you doing, Zave? inquired an unctuous voice.

Fine, Sam. How are you? I asked.

A little disappointed, I must admit. You lost the fight, true, but you were trying to take John down. He told me about your little talk in the ring. I thought you were smarter than that, Zave.