Polrag : A Crackermouse on Trial

"I've got a plan!" Shouted Polrag to his jittery lawyer, Skoogan.

"It had better be good Polrag, because you've gone too far this time. I doubt even I can wriggle you out of this one. He'll rip you apart lad and its no more cheese for thee. I can tell you that much. Forget that Brie at the weekend pipsqueak."

"And you are my lawyer Skoogan? You don't fill me with confidence. I am paying you a princely sum to see justice is done."

"Tis one thing paying for a service lad, which I will deliver, to the best of my ability. But, as you acknowledge, my Roquefort loving friend. A lawyer, I am, not a miracle worker. For that, you should pray to the God of your understanding. Which I assume is some deity of all things fromage. We shall try Polrag, we shall but try.." Skoogan solemnly bowed his head to his client.

"Indeed Sir, you shall try. And succeed, else I will exercise my 'No win, no fee.' clause.

"Nice try Polrag, you have seen the small print. No go and eat some Bocconcini or something, let me focus on my work. I will need to be at my best in court.. Should you survive the fight of course! "

The little Crackermouse felt a shiver run through his small body as he prepared to enter the rocking Gwestwraith Contest Arena. Adrenaline and fear mixed in equal measures, brought about a heady cocktail of adrenal panic. Undefinable sounds rang out from the crowds, dulled by the soft clay walls of the entrance tunnel. Polrag Crackermouse twitched and shifted from paw to paw, uneasy and unsure. Was he still glad of his chivalrous actions? Brave and true though his intentions were, he could not have predicted this.

In the opposite tunnel, there stood, in stark contrast to Polrag, was the daunting bulk of Gunnarslaav Badgaar, lead huntsman of the Planet Gwestraith 12, and a Badgaar of some regal standing and honour. The older and generally more revered of the two beings, he emitted low growls and uttered quiet, yet serious sounding mantras repeatedly. 

Something about making Polrag pay dearly for his wild and unfounded insinuations. After each run through of his mantra, he would rear back on his hind legs and twirl his sharpened hunting staff around his head, shouting "The end, the end, The end is today. Polrag shall pay, as the Crackermice flay." Then he would go quiet again murmuring his more colourful, anathematising words under his breath.  

Two Beagle-Bats nervously stood guard on each tunnel, awaiting the sound of the regal rantahorn, blown twice, to signify the beginning of battle. The crowd outside swelled, and various Gwestraithian's gathered to show their support for their chosen hero, some chose to simply mock and heap derision on either of the two rivals, there only to smell blood and seek some kind of cheap kick in their usually routine, plain existences. A fight between two stubborn souls, neither of whom would back down. Both of whom, had briefed lawyers for the upcoming court case. Both accusing the other of defamation of character.

This fight would take place before the Royal Family. Hannitweet-Blackcap Twitterscratch the 53rd was the King of Gwestraith 12, a small yet dignified creature, member of the Finnk bird family. He perched casually, on a cushioned golden handmade branch, surveying the arena and flapping his wings in recognition of the capacity crowds apparent admiration and respect for him. He waved his wings manically, regally nodding and lapping up the adulation. He twittered in deep satisfaction as his portly, well fed belly protruded from royal costume.

Hannitweet was joined by his good wife Queen Joleenash-Redstart Twitterscratch, they settled back, heavily guarded of course, by a posse of Miniature Bullses, a cross between a horse and a bull, probably some macabre experiment from planetary terraforming of many moons ago. Bullses were renowned for their willingness to get involved in a fight and henceforth any troublemakers would think twice. Sturdy and bad tempered, the Bullses brandished crude axe like weapons.

This whole ridiculous saga stemmed from an ongoing war of words, started some weeks ago, by the diminutive Cheese Defender, Polrag Crackermouse due to his honour and that of his Rodenteers, being openly mocked by Gunnarslaav and his baying men. 

The feisty little mammal had been given, along with his Rodenteers, the task of guarding the royal larders at the Gwestraithian Palace. Food had become a precious commodity in this area of the galaxy, and besides outcasts and petty thieves trying to sneak away a free meal or steal some valuable wines or cheeses to sell on a black market, the palace had also been targeted by raiders from the neighbouring planet Gwestraith 11. 

A civil war had been waged many moons ago between the two planets, but had long been over, although a new uneasy feud had been simmering now for a while. Gwestraith 11 had sought to gain a fifty percent share of the food on Gwestraith 12 on the grounds of compassion after a freak Cataclysm-Rockstorm had ravaged the planets resources. However, after the Gwestraithian and Hurbanaxian governing federations long consideration, the appeal was thrown out and it was deemed that each planet would keep its own resources to itself, regardless of freak intervention, save that no more wars could be waged citing ownership of anything. Harsh but practical, was the verdict. Whats yours is yours and so on. Life on life's terms.

The two planets initially accepted this cold but factually practical verdict, though over the last few years, many of the citizens of Gwestraith 11 felt that their neighbouring planet had been looking down at them, sneering and mocking from upon high. This had led to anger, and then bands of raiders began to form, and target the palace of Gwestraith 12 on swoop and steal missions. Hence the need for Polrag and his Rodenteers to be on constant vigil. 

Things had been going missing from the larders in the last two months or so, a lot of valuable foods and drinks, precious meats and rich vegetables. Sumptuous cheeses and wines. Pressure had built on Polrag and his men to catch the thieves. They had failed so far to deliver. Save nabbing the odd adolescent Rabbitoid or Pigglezonk, out to pilfer herbal plant-age to make Herbicide smokes, or Sizzle Whiskey to get drunk off.

Polrag and his men turned over these petty wrongdoers to the palace security and they were usually given a public humiliation and dressing down in front of the Royals and were so ashamed that they either fled or became religious and God fearing and devoted themselves to keeping Gwestraith 12 a good and well kept planet. Still though, larger items kept going missing and the Rodenteers and Crackermice fell under further immense pressure. This was not helped by the sarcastic jeerings of the huntsmen, led by Gunnarslaav Badgaar and his motley looking crew of stellaarfox, Weaseltrons and Cacklerats.

In order to keep the larder well stocked with fresh foods as well as the natural things harvested by the planets farming systems, King Twitterscratch employed hunters, to head out once a week to the wastelands of the planet, under orders not to return until a sufficient measure of food had been brought back for freezing. They would hunt out various things and bring them back to bolster the palaces food supplies. Much like we have fishermen at sea. 

They would come home from a successful haul, to the excited gatherings of the citizens, to show off their catches like returning heroes. "See, see what we bring for our Palaces larders!" Gunnarslaav would shout, egged on by the crowds and his hunters. "Lets hope that damned piddling Wafermouse or whatever he calls himself, doesn't share it with his so called guard again, while the rest of us sleep. That Mouse and his friends are stealing a living and most probably, the food! He does not do his job. Allowing theft whilst we risk our very lives in the wastelands." The citizens jeered again and laughed.

Polrag would stand on the fringes, seething at Gunnarslaav for his veiled accusations and general pot-stirring. Surely Gunnarslaav knew in his heart that Polrag was a good and trustworthy citizen. Why must he make trouble in this way. Still, Polrag knew that deep down, everyone else trusted him, despite the Badgaar's tasteless joking. 

He just wished he could catch whoever was stealing the food and supplies so he could parade them in front of the King, if only to show Gunnarslaav that he was good at his role as Guardian of the larders, and so were his Rodenteers. That would wipe the smirk off the old Badgaar's face.

He looked over at his lawyer, Skoogan. None of this need have been. Skoogan caught Polrag's glance and for a split second, his face gave away ever such a tiny, suspicious, almost guilty look. Then, Skoogan smiled confidently back at Polrag.

"Worry not lad, I have the situation under control. You will be fine my little Manchego ingesting rodent..Should you survive the fight.." Skoogan's smile looked unusually slimy as the lawyer went back to his conversation with some droning, half-cut Toadtoises.

Polrag clutched his lucky Cheesemerald and headed into the arena.

"Good luck Polrag. Whatever your plan is, I hope it works. Gunnarslaav is fuming. I wouldn't want to be in your clogs old friend. He looks ready to do some damage with that axe!"

Skoogan chortled heartily and continued his banter as Polrag was pushed out into the arena to his ill fated face off with Gunnarslaav. Skoogan tipped another large Sizzle Whiskey and went to take his seat with a huge bag of recently acquired snacks.

"I don't think my services are going to be required my dear Polrag.." He shouted to the Crackermouse. It dawned on Polrag that Skoogan was the thief! Too late. Gunnarslaav was charging towards him swinging his axe like a Badgaar posessed.

"If I come out of this Skoogan, I'll drown you in molten Camembert, make no mistake. Its the boling vat for thee!" Polrag dodged a wild swing from Gunnarslaav.

Skoogan rocked back with laughter.

"By any means Polrag lad, you do as you see fit. A grizzly end then, for our brave Crackermouse.."

Skoogan bellowed again and stuffed his face full of lavish expensive snacks, tittering all the while. The conniving lawyer took a large slurp of Sizzle Whiskey. His face suddenly contorted, his skin turned mottled grey and he began to thrash about in his luxurious padded seat. The crowds attention diverted from the fight as Skoogan collapsed to the floor.

Rigid. He was dead. Drugged. A Badgaar guard signalled to Gunnarslaav. Gunnarslaav stopped wielding the axe. Polrag looked completely dumbfounded.

"Good job Polrag Crackermouse. You have outed the thief among us. Tonight you and your mice shall dine on the finest Feta's, Emmental's and Mozzarella's."

Gunnarslaav dropped his axe and wrapped Polrag in a tight embrace.

The crowd cheered wildly, although somewhat confused at this unexpected truce as Skoogan's petrified corpse was dragged away by the Beagle Bats.

"Gunnarslaav.. Bu.. But?.."

"Do not think too much on it lad. An act. A mere folly on my part. I thought I was rather good my Bleu d'Auvergne gobbling friend. Sadly my whole performance was necessary. Sorry about that old bean. You see, I am a member of the planetary secret service. A double agent, a policeman, seeker of justice. Call it what you will my heroic little fellow. Skoogan is no more. Tonight, we take part in a night of revelry and feasting, the like of which the Gwestwraith's have never seen! Gentlemen, start your engines.." 

The giant Badgaar passed Polrag a huge plate of glorious cheeses, guffawed and slapped the stunned but relieved Crackermouse on his back as his men, The Rodenteer's, celebrated a deserved victory.

THE END

Andrew Evans © 2023