MAX FINNEGAN, ROGUE PRINCE OF PINCONNING
Philip Wooldridge
Smashwords Edition 1.0, March 2011
Copyright 2011 Philip Wooldridge
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Max Finnegan, Rogue Prince Of Pinconning is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents appearing in this work are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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* * * * *
If you're ever find yourself searching for a nice little Sunday drive, you needn't look further than Highway 13 in Michigan. Start your engine around the town of Kawkawlin and just keep going north; you'll eventually arrive in Pinconning, the cheese capitol of the Great Lakes State. It's funny that Pinconning, while home to a plethora of shops selling the pride of the township, doesn't have a single mouse living there. They don't even come calling during the Cheese Festival which is held every June. In fact, the only rodent you'll see in the little municipality is a statue of a mouse holding a triangular piece of cheese, just in front of Winslow's Cheese Shoppe, on the right side of the road. That's it - that's the only rodent in sight, or maybe that's just what the local folks want you to believe.
The simple truth is this - where there's creamy yellow goodness, there's mice about. There must have been something in the world-famous Pinconning cheese that gave way to a more civilized rodent, and there was none more clever in all the world than Maximilian Finnegan.
Now Max had been well educated in the standard ways of attaining cheese, that is, you live your life out, stealing every available crumb and slice until your number's pulled, and you find your life's ended by a fast trap or a sharp cat's claw. Max figured there had to be a better way to provide for himself and his family. Any old rat can grab a piece of cheddar with his paws, he thought, but it takes a true rogue to build up a stockpile through diplomacy, charisma, and war, if need be.
Winter was fast approaching Michigan, and Max noticed the meager stores in the Great Barn were quickly dwindling. He'd seen what the cold months meant to his kind. The truths of the season were colder than the wind that came across the Great Lake Huron. All would steal, many would fight over scraps, and some wouldn't live to see the springtime. When all the rodents were gathered together in the Great Barn one Saturday night, Max stepped up on the matchbox podium and made an announcement.
“Kinsmen of the Pinconning Clan, lend me your attention for a brief moment.” All the mice around gathered to listen. “Michigan mice are the finest in all the world, yet we turn against one another for survival during the harsh winter months. I have a proposal – we ask for the cheese this year from the cheese maker Winslow.”
“Ask for food?” murmured the voices among the crowd. “He's touched in the head!” called out others.
The eldest among the mice walked slowly up to the matchbox. “Max, my boy,” he said. “You've always been a dreamer, and in some things, it's an admirable characteristic. But son, you can't just ask a human for cheese. And besides, there's Cinder the Terrible, that devil of a cat, to contend with. What you're suggesting is suicide, a death sentence!”
“Living day to day, fighting amongst ourselves, and slowly starving is a much crueler punishment,” replied Max. “If I'm to perish, I'd be happy to die trying to make a better life for those I should leave behind.”
“You're mad,” said the elder. “But … you're also correct in your observations. Tell us your plan.”
“It begins at Winslow's Cheese Shoppe,” continued Max. “Cinder's a creature of vice, and I've seen her weakness - tuna. We have secured a can that we'll set out for the cat, and that will occupy her mind and mouth so that our letter can be delivered.”
“And what does this letter offer?” asked the elder.
“An honest bargain,” continued Max. “Winslow keeps the mouse statue at the front of his shoppe filled with enough cheese to feed our families, and in exchange, we ensure that not a single mouse will be seen in the light of day in all of Pinconning.”
“Why now, though?” asked one of the kinsmen.
“The Pinconning Cheese Festival is in one week's time. There'll be plenty of extra made, Winslow's going to be making good money all that week; it's the right moment to catch the human in a charitable mood.
“You'll be slaughtered by that bloody cat before you have the chance to deliver your message,” replied another one of the men in the barn.
“I don't know - Finnegan's quick on his paws,” commented another. “If anyone can outrun Cinder's attacks, it's him.”
“Then it's settled,” replied the elder. “Max will submit his offer to Winslow tomorrow morning. Pick five men to accompany you and the tuna to the shoppe.”
Max stepped down from the matchbox to cheers and pats on the back. As he walked through the barn, the applause died down when Max's wife, Claudia, stood at the entrance of their hole. “I know I've got no chance of stopping you, Max,” she said, hugging him tightly. “But please don't go - the children and I can't bear to lose you to that evil feline.”
“We're all lost unless our way of life changes,” replied Max, “I'm scared of Cinder, probably more than anyone among us. But I'm willing to place myself in harm's way to ensure our survival.”
“If you're heart's full of fear, then perhaps you should listen. It's telling you not to get anywhere near that cat. Max, if you lose, we won't have anyone to lean on.”
“But … if I win, no member of the Clan will have to face the likes of Cinder.”
“Then be careful,” she replied, kissing him on the cheek and rubbing his ears with her tiny fingers. “And be back … you've got a family who needs you.”
“If this works,” said Max, “We'll never want for food again. And we'll have a chance at a better life than those before us knew.”
The five crusaders, Max, his brothers John and Tatum, and two kinsmen of the McGregor family, Rodney and Rick, mulled over their plans for the rest of the night. They worked tirelessly to open the can of tuna, and when the lid came off, they loaded the fish into their makeshift wagon train, a series of rolling matchboxes, with toothpick axles, Fruit Loop wheels, and eraser hubcaps. They sat down around an empty spool to discuss their plans for the next day.
Winslow's would be approached from the back; the tuna would be set out on the rear porch just to the right of the screen door. As soon as the bait was set, the crew would scamper up to the window sill and wait. Cinder would come out the door and sniff around the tuna, the back half of her body leaving the doorway open. Max would throw a lasso on the door's inner handle, and all mice would swing inside. The crew figured Cinder would either move or jump at the sound of the rodents on the rope, causing the door to shut. Once inside, the mice would secure the end of the rope, temporarily locking Cinder outside. The letter would be delivered to Winslow's desk, and the five would sneak out a nearby hole; surely there was one to be found close to the front door.
“So what's this letter going to say?” asked Rodney.
“Hand me that quill,” replied Max, as he grabbed a scrap piece of paper and walked over to a muddy spot. Max dipped the small feather in mud, as his partners spread out the paper and held it down on a dry patch. Max held his pen and started to write.
A Gentleman's Proposal:
Dear Mr. Winslow, Our two tribes have battled needlessly for generations. We steal for our very survival, you plot to trap and kill us for the success of your business. I have come to the conclusion that our species would be better off if we had as little contact with one another as possible, and I respectfully submit this offer to you: Fill the hollow of the mouse statue at the front of your shoppe every month, by the eighth moon, with enough cheese to ensure our bellies remain full, and in return, I pledge, on my honor, that no mouse from the Pinconning Clan will be seen in the light of day in your shoppe, or anywhere in the township of Pinconning.
I will also spread the word to nearby Clans and visiting rodents to keep away from your businesses. I speak for the five families of the Pinconning Clan: The Finnegans, the McGregors, the Jamesons, the Andersons, and the Blarneys. I look forward to your correspondence.
Sincerely, Max Finnegan of Pinconning.
Post Script: Please leave your response in writing, at the base of the tall pine tree fifty feet due east of your back door. Should we not receive a suitable reply by Tuesday, we shall see you all at the Cheese Festival this coming weekend – M.F.
“Fine letter you've written there, Max,” said Rick. “Think Winslow will go for it?”
“Don't know, humans are such a strange lot,” replied Max. “But we've got to give it a go.” He rolled the paper into a scroll, tied a string around it, and made a seal out of some of the mud, placing his paw print firmly in the middle before the dirt completely dried.
“I still don't know about this,” commented John, as he placed and strapped the scroll on top of the tuna piles. “Cinder's taken at least twenty of our folk with her claws.”
“John, we have to take a chance on this,” said Max. “Take a moment, and dream of a world where your children, and their children, never have to fear a single claw, and live out life in peace and prosperity. I'd give my life for that world, and I'd be happy looking down from Heaven, watching all my offspring revel and thrive in that world. How about you?”
“You're right, brother,” he replied. “If I ever bring kids into this world, it's definitely something I'd give my life for.” John walked over to the bar and pulled out five thimbles from a little box. The others tipped over an open bottle of beer and let the spirits pool into a dent in the ground. “Drink up, lads,” smiled John, filling each of the thimbles and passing them around, “For tomorrow, we die.”
“Don't be so bloody dismal!” laughed Max, dumping his thimble on top of his brother's head. John threw the contents of his own cup at Max, soaking him to the bone before filling up both their vessels again. The five drank a few more thimbles of beer before falling asleep by the wagon train.
* * * * *
The next morning, just before dawn, the mice woke up. They went to their respective areas of the barn to see their wives and children sleeping. They said a silent farewells and prayers, and met back at the wagon train without saying goodbye to any among the Clan. They drew their weapons; cocktail swords requisitioned during a market raid, and tested their sturdiness by slapping them against the wooden walls and sticking them into the ground below. When they'd found suitable arms, they donned their duffel bags, pulled their wagons out of the main door, and headed towards Winslow's Cheese Shoppe.
Once at the cheese maker's building, they quietly crept to the back door, and positioned the tuna just as they'd planned the previous night. Max threw his lasso up to the window sill, and once taut, climbed the rope up and secured it tighter. He helped his fellow crew members up and they braced themselves against the window. When Max had freed his rope and prepared it for the second task, he banged on the window with the hilt of his sword. “Cinder!” he called. “Come here, girlie!”
Sounds of movement could be heard coming from inside the shoppe, and it wasn't long before Cinder came creeping out to see what the noise was about. She stopped midway in the entrance, just as Max had predicted, and sniffed around.
“She's going to catch us,” whispered Rick.
“Easy there, mate,” replied Max, already throwing his lasso to the handle on the inside. “Got it! Hang on, boys.” The five mice grabbed the rope tightly and swung into the shop. Just as Tatum had his form inside, Cinder noticed the gift of tuna, and moved forward for her treat, closing the screen door behind her. John, Rick, Tatum, and Rodney had dropped to the floor as Max held on to the end of his rope. He moved himself back and forth to get some momentum going, and using his body as a weight on the end of the lasso, swung around a nail sticking out on the door frame a couple of times. He tied a knot once the rope had wrapped itself around the nail, and made sure the line was taut and the knot was secure before joining the rest of his crew.
“We're in!” laughed John. “We're actually in the store and safe from Cinder!”
“Now's not the time to get cocky,” warned Max. “Mates, fill your bags with cheese. I'll set the note on the Winslow's desktop.” Max scrambled up the wooden desk with the scroll, as the others grabbed nearby pieces of cheese which were small enough to fit in their tiny bags. “All right, it's done,” panted Max, returning to the main room. “Let's be on our way.”
All of a sudden, the mice heard a crashing sound. John ran around the corner to investigate. “It's Cinder!” he cried. “She's made it through the screen window!”
“Come on, then, let's be quick now,” ordered Max, as he guided Tatum, Rick, and Rodney to the front of the shoppe. They searched furiously for a crack in the ground where they and the bags could fit through.
“Max, here's one!” yelled Tatum. Max ran over to the exit discovered by his brother.
“That'll do, mate,” smiled Max. “Come on, boys, let's move!” Tatum left first, followed by Rick. As Rodney prepared to enter the hole, he and Max head a scream from the back of the shoppe.
“What's that, then?” asked Rodney.
“You go on, mate,” replied Max. “I'll look into it, you and they boys get the cheese back to the barn.”
“You'll be killed if you go back alone!” said Rodney.
“I'll kill you myself if you don't get down that hole,” said Max. Rodney stared at him blankly. “Get, I said!” yelled Max, stabbing Rodney in the backside with his sword. Rodney hurried in the hole, and Max, sword still in hand, walked slowly to the back of Winslow's store. The closer he came to the back door, the more a most unusual sound came from the area. He tip-toed until the cat was in full view, and likewise, the lifeless body of his younger brother John. Max gripped his sword firmly and ran to where Cinder was sitting.