Long time, no speak.

Sorry its been a while, I was kidnapped again. For weeks, I've been kept prisoner in a dark, squalid dungeon, allowed out only occasionally to judge village fêtes.

Day after day, I could hear them outside, assembling the latest fête, setting up stalls and tents, preparing cheeses for my pallet, arranging gladiola for me to consider.

 Then, they would drag me out of the dungeon kicking and screaming, and when I acquiesced to their demands, pile assorted crap before me for my judgement. Without care, I would hand out ribbons and trophies, awards and cash prizes, always under the title of the 'Mayor of Funville'. But I was no elected official, nor was I fun.

 After God knows how many fêtes, I resolved to escape or die. Half starved; they dragged me out of the dungeon to judge a display of dioramas. Small town squares, with churches and little, Victorian shops, that sort of thing. After seeing three or four, I was dragged, in my Mayoral garb and handcuffs, before a rather stunning display. Lifelike, scale replicas of a Church and row of shops shined out at me, above a complex reconstruction of the London Underground, a reproduction as stunning as it was out-of-place. 

 I turned to the creator, a boy of 9 or 10.

 "How... How did you create this, surface dweller?" I asked slowly, words inconsiderate strangers in my mouth.

 He looked at me coldly, the level stare of a serial killer, and replied in the silky voice of an angel:

 "Mice."

 I looked at the diorama again. In the forecourt, teams of mice in period clothing were going about their business like snouted midgets, selling tiny wax fruit and buying new suits.

  It was beautiful. For the first time since I had been captured, I cried. I dropped to my knees and sobbed, tears streaming through the filth on my face and spilling dirtily onto my Mayor's sash. 

 One of my captors stepped up to me in time, and dabbed my face dry. 

 "You want your freedom?"

 I nodded, tears still trickling downwards.

 "You may have it. Destroy this town, and it is yours."

 I shook my head.

 "No. I will not do as you ask. The mice are innocent."

 "They are not innocent. No-one is innocent. These mice are guilty of sins before God and their fellow man. Strike them down. Take this sickle."

 His hand extended towards me, offering a small frying-pan that was, amongst other things, not a sickle.

 "No! I cannot!" I said. Not least because my hands were still tied behind my back.

 "Then you are not fit to be the Mayor of Funville!" The man shrieked.

 I shrugged. "I never wanted to be Mayor." I said at length.

 "Really? Oh, cool. Right, on your way then." He said, untying my hands and stripping me of my mayor's gownage.

 I got to my feet slowly. The mice, having gathered to watch me decide their fate, applauded and cheered. One offered me a shoe, but I didn't take it because it wouldn't go with my dungeon rags and was very small. Flexing my arms, I stretched out and left.

 The mice watched me go. Then, after I was out of site, they turned on my captors and devoured them. Such are the wages of sin.

Everything's about tiny men nowadays...

Max stopped cleaning, and looked up at me.
 "What're we going to do with all the Smurf bits?"
I looked at the small pile he'd made. Sure, we could probably dispose of the dead mice easily enough: If anyone asked too many questions, we could pretend to be mice exterminators, I suppose. We could even buy fake moustaches, overalls and a painted truck, if things got out of hand. But Smurf parts, on the other hand, we probably not binnable. And I don't think we can put them in the recycling either...
 Gathering the pieces up, I headed into the house to find an envelope. With any luck, the Internet will soon yield me James Cameron's home address... I'm not entirely sure what brought this on...

Mice, mice everywhere, and not a drop to drink...

The Mice were back. I'd found them this morning, milling around in my basement. They seemed to have upgraded their weaponry since the last time, and some were wearing adorable little camouflage costumes.
 "Sup?" I asked the leader casually.
 "My friend!" He replied, "We became disillusioned with the rebellion. We are now soldiers of fortune!"
I'll admit, the leader's dialogue was somewhat clunky and expositional. On the other hand, he was doing very well for a mouse. He was leaning against the wall now, in camo fatigues, and holding a cigarette.
 Oh, I told him. Secretly though, I was beginning to plot ways I could use an army of mice... After all, I have a lot of enemies. And some friends as well... Ooh, I'd make them pay...

 Anyway, the Smurfs were back. They too were milling around, in the garden. They'd cut some branches, and started to set up for a siege. Tiny smurf engineers had begun work on tiny catapults and battering rams. I'd tried to negotiate with them, but to no avail. Similarly, my bribes of catfood had been unsuccessful. I offered them one last chance to leave, then set the mice on them.
 The garden's a blood mess. Mice guts are spread across the path. Tiny blue arms are stuck up trees, little white hats are piled sadly beside my rosebush. Max arrived earlier, and since this was his fault, I sent him to work with a leaf blower, cleaning the place up.

I took another look at the note...

It was small, I'll give it that. Inspection of it revealed small, untidy writing in general, punctuated by several larger, neater words of more than one syllable. Despite it's claim to be from local government, the letter had clearly been written by a group of mice - the demands for immediate payment of cheese taxation clearly supported this hypothesis, anyhow. Similarly, I'd seen a group of hungry looking mice hanging 'round the neighbourhood, shouting racist slogans at passers-bye and building igloos. Mice are truly fascinating creatures, I thought to myself, as I stored the letter in my letter rack. Fascinating, I thought again, as I returned to my paint fumes and hemp underwear.

Mice...

have my keys. They are demanding a handsome ransom for their return. They've locked me out, and I just know they're inside, using my oven to cook their filthy cakes and dealing drugs to the neighbourhood insects.

I have taken to painting mice and releasing them into the general population. I'd hoped they would breed, creating a race of brightly-coloured furry friends for everyone, but they generally die. I knew lead-based paint was a bad idea...

A Latesummer day's dream.

I sighed deeply. The bus was late, and it was beginning to rain again. I waited a few minutes, looking at my watch intently, to see if that would help. Just as I was about to give up hope, I saw a speck of grey in the distance. I watched, hopefully, until it became a more solid, bus-shaped object, which duly stopped in front of me.
I got up and, seeing no-one approach the door from inside the bus, rushed onwards. However, as the door opened, I realised I had missed several passengers waiting to exit.
Around two dozen mice rushed from the bus, cheering and waving tiny medieval weaponry. I recoiled, somewhat startled.
"Hey!" One of them yelled, "Which way to the council offices?"
I studied the mouse. He was slightly bigger than the rest, although it didn't make much difference. His armour was more shiny, his clothing grander, and his sword bigger. As I watched, two more mice approached, holding a shield. The first mouse got onto this, and they raised him up. A fourth mouse stood nearby, waving a flag enthusiastically.
It was safe to assume, I assumed, that this first mouse was some sort of leader...
"Well... You want to head down this street, then take a left onto Carswell Lane." I replied. Frankly, I didn't know if this was true or not. I didn't even know where Carswell Lane was.
"What are you doing anyway?"
"Too long we have lived under the feudal oppression of this government" He yelled, "Too long have we suffered the injustice of repressive laws and unfair taxation. We will overthrow them!"
"Oh." I replied, "How?"
"We... will... Eat Their DOCUMENTS! Without proper records, confusion will ensue. Then, we will take over!"
"But... won't most of their records be on computers?"
"Oh... then... we chew through the cables!"
"I think they have a coating to stop that." I replied.
The mouse looked at me, about to say something. Then he signed, and climbed down from the shield. The mice, formerly brimming with purpose, started to wander around dejectedly. After a few minutes, the leader lit up a cigarette and wandered off. The rest of the mice, 8 of whom were dragging a tiny catapult, followed him at a respectful distance.
I watched them go , until my thoughts were interrupted by the bus driver:
"Oi! Mate, you gettin' on or not?"
"Oh. Sorry." I replied, "No. I only came to see if you'd be on time. And you weren't."
I suppose if I continue to test the reliance of bus companies, then I should expect these kind of things to happen. But frankly, I wish I'd just stayed in bed.