Flash Fiction inspired by a friend

One of my friends whose nickname is Mouse, and whom I used to play music with, offered up the suggestion for a story about a mouse who plays guitar after reading my facebook posts about my new book. I took his suggestion to heart and this was the result:

Die Shreddermaus

By William R. Hirons

Crooner, Thumper and Bottom End were in a panic. Plucker, the guitar player who had been with them since the beginning had taken off across country to chase after a girl and left them in the lurch. They had a gig the following weekend at one of the biggest jam bars in town and now they were stuck with nobody to fill out the melody parts of all the songs they had worked so diligently on to craft and refine for such an important showcase.

“What're we gonna do guys,” Thumper lamented.

“We could always give Chauncey Wiggenbottom a call,” Bottom End suggested, absentmindedly picking at a Ramones sticker that had been glued to the face of his bass guitar some dozen years ago and was now beginning to curl at the edges.

Crooner shook his head emphatically. “No way, that dude can't keep time for squat. He can play the notes but Thumper has to speed up and slow down his beats. Besides, the guy smells like old cheese.”

Thumper shook his head sadly. “Yeah, he's supposed to follow me, not the other way around. How about Fast Freddy Frackin?”

Crooner looked at Thumper out of the top of his eyes in disbelief and Bottom End snorted and said, “Not a chance, dude turns every song into a speed metal, scalefest of solos. He's like Yngwie Malmsteen on meth.”

Crooner got out his cell phone and started looking through his contacts list searching for a suitable replacement for their former picker while his bandmates sulked. Bottom End tilted his head in a pose that said he was hearing something but wasn't sure what it was.

“You guys hear that?”

Thumper stopped running his brush around the edge of his cymbal and cocked his head, listening intently.

“Yeah. What is that? Sounds kinda like my squeaky chair at work when I get bored and spin around to make myself dizzy.”

Crooner looked around trying to figure out where the noise was coming from, stalking around the garage they used as their band practice space like a cat hunting for prey.

Bottom end walked up to a row of shelves that his dad had all his woodworking tools on and gasped, “Whoa dudes. Check this out,” he whispered in awe and indicating a space next to the bandsaw his dad had never used.

Thumper got up from his kit and followed Crooner over to stand next to Bottom End and they all stared with their jaws hanging open.

Standing between the unused bandsaw and pickle jar full of screws, nails and other odds and ends was a little brown mouse, a tiny guitar strapped over its shoulder and hooked up to a miniature Marshall stack no bigger than one of the Hot Wheels cars that Crooner liked to collect.

“No flippin' way,” Thumper managed to say after an interminable length of time that the trio had been watching while the little mouse twitched its whiskers and squeaked out a long tirade of undecipherable abuse.

Crooner looked back and forth between his bandmates and the little rodent. “Where in the name of Django Reinhardt did he get that mini axe and rig?”

Bottom End shook his head. “No clue man. Hey, you think the little dude is trying to audition for us?”

Thumper raised an eyebrow. “I dunno, but there's no way that little amp is gonna manage to not get drowned out by my beats.”

The little mouse crossed his arms over his guitar and gave the three what could only be construed as a sign of wounded pride.

Crooner laughed. “Mousey be pretty confident,” he said to his pals, “maybe we should give him a shot.”

The other two humans laughed and then took a step back in surprise when the miniature guitar player flipped a switch on the tiny amp and a screech of feedback filled the garage that was loud enough to rattle the odds and ends on the shelf and caused the snare on one of Thumper's drums to rattle against the drumhead.

The mouse threw his head back in an unmistakable pose of satisfaction then placed his hands upon the threadlike strings.

A heavy metal version of Paganini's 'Andantino Variato' filled the garage and the three band members stared at the little virtuoso, all three with their jaws hanging to their chests.

As the piece came to its end, the little mouse proceeded to play their whole set list, from beginning to end, better than Plucker had ever been able to perform.

When he had finished, the band members all cheered and applauded as the mouse bowed as if ending a performance at Carnegie Hall.

Bottom End nodded in satisfaction and said to his buddies, “well, looks like we have our replacement.”

Thumper fairly gushed, “straight up. What a promotional hook too. World's smallest guitar virtuoso!”

Crooner smiled in agreement, then cocked his head questioningly. “But what's his name? Gotta have the right tag to be in a band."

The other two looked at him for a moment then all three looked at the little mouse.

The tiny stringsmith got what could only be considered a satisfied smile and flipped his tiny little guitar over so that the back showed.

The three aspiring musicians all leaned over and squinted to see what was painted in fancy script on the tiny guitar. All three nodded approval at what it said.

“Die Shreddermaus.”