Re: Dancing with the Tsars

by **Buckeye Belle** Sat Sep 05, 2015 12:18 pm

162. Belle

At this point, most of the Fleissmice were up a tree as how to revamp the production on such short notice. And, frankly, they were sick of gnawing on wood. None of them had worked on live television before and had always had the luxury of just following the Fleissmeister's orders. All they could do now was wait for the "Charge!" command from their new leaders.

Chris, too, was scriptily challenged. He had enough trouble with credibility as it was. Without a wine glass, a butter knife, a tray full of roses and a deck of cue cards, he felt up a creek without a paddle, a ship without a sail, a hot fudge sundae without a cherry on top, a pair of jeans without pockets, a violin without strings . . .

"Oh, pullllllllleeeeeze stop with the cheesy metaphors!" shouted Loud Mouse, smoke coming out its ears. The voice was resounding from somewhere deep in the innards of the building. (Note to readers: We're not so sure Loud Mouse actually said "Please".)

The clock was ticking down to air time. With little confidence, it was decided that the return castoff cast members would dance first, then the one remaining dancing contestant would follow. After that, punctuated with a bunch of mindless interviews, the mirror ball trophy would be awarded to Tessa, Tsar Peter and Tony, who would be declared winners by default. It was hoped the crowd would buy it.

Chris and Melissa would be on their own to announce this for the broadcast.

Upon learning the plan, a befuddled Quiet Mouse couldn't help but think about that phrase from Hamlet (or was it Macbeth?): "The world is a stage . . . [and reality TV is] a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," and wonder if Loud Mouse agreed.

All the mice crossed their tails. They hoped against hope they could pull off their, er, plot.

by **Buckeye Belle** Sat Sep 05, 2015 12:22 pm

163. Belle

All of the participants in the evening's broadcast took their assigned places. Chris made his announcements. Someone in the audience whispered to a companion, "He sounds like John Travolta introducing Idina Menzel at the Oscars."

When it was their time, Peter I and Tessa took the floor. The audience cheered at their appearence; it had been a rather snooze-worthy event so far.

Suddenly, a shout of "Charge!" was heard over the sound system. With huge bang, the floor collapsed. Every person and item--cast, crew, orchestra, music stands, tables, props--that were on the floor slid into the giant sinkhole that had been formed. The audience gasped--now they were entertained! Just before he lost his balance, Maks grabbed the mirror ball trophy and cradled it in arms so it wouldn't be damaged.

A chorus of delighted squeaks came from the control room. And while all this was happening, the viewers at home were seeing a cut to a live broadcast from the Los Angeler Opera. The work being performed was Verdi's Aida, with Sharleen in the title role and that guy from The Bachelorette, Bradley, as Radamès, her lover.

Curious Mouse sighed. "The only thing wrong with this picture is there are no mice in the parade on the opera stage. The elephants always get the best parts after all this work! Too bad."

All the historical royalty were beamed from the arena's rubble into the time machine that had brought them. They were accompanied by anyone who wanted to join them on their journey home.

Meanwhile, the conspirators from the undisclosed location herded all the producers, and any other minions that were in the bach mansion, outside and into a strange-looking conveyance that was a carbon copy of the one that carried passengers from the arena. Only one person escaped this roundup, running into the night like a scared . . . mouse?

by **Buckeye Belle** Sat Sep 05, 2015 12:28 pm

164. Belle

The lights were ablaze in a very disclosed location--ABC headquarters in New York. In a conference room on an upper floor, the suits had convened to brainstorm how to handle this apparent disaster.

The place looked like a war room, with pizza boxes strewn everywhere, stale coffee at the bottom of a party-sized coffee maker, water and soda bottles crowding the floor, and even a plastic trash bag brimming with discarded notebook paper. There were also several ashtrays with butts overflowing.

Some of the executives were seated; some were pacing the floor. Some were leaning forward with their elbows on the table; some were leaning so far back as to be in danger of crashing. Any observer would have concluded they had been meeting for hours. He or she would have been right.

The door to the room was open to let out the smoke and let in some cleaner air to breathe. Opposite the door, on the other side of the hallway, was the elevator.

The conversation among the suits was intense:

"How is this going to affect the ratings? Is there anything here we can cash in on?"

"What statements should be made to the press? Oh, wait! We are the press."

"Can we get some of the victims on GMA in the morning?"

"It's almost morning now!"

"We don't even know where to find the victims, or if they're going to talk to us!"

"Oh, some of them will talk to us, if we give them the right reasons."

"We need something about the ongoing investigation."

"How are we going to divide the coverage among all our programs to keep people watching?"

"What about the tabloids? They'll speculate all over the place. I can just hear them now: 'Was this a result of shoddy construction materials purchased by a female project manager with PMS?'"

"Do you think we can get that Ivan fellow as a contributor?"

"Who was behind this thing, anyway? It looked like the WILDEST sabotage EVER!"

"What do you think the motive was?"

The verbal exchange was interrupted by the sound of the elevator door opening. All of the suits immediately trained their eyes to the corridor to look outside. The single occupant of the elevator stumbled out. He was grubby, wrinkled and quite disheveled. He could barely keep his balance as he made his way from the elevator to the conference room. As the man stood in the conference room doorway, one of the suits gasped, "Oh . . . my . . . God . . . it's Mike!"

There was an achingly long pause that lasted exactly three minutes. Then the man spoke in a strangled voice:

"Was that enough drama for you?"

by **Buckeye Belle** Sat Sep 05, 2015 12:32 pm

166. Belle

EPILOGUE

Curious Mouse and Quiet Mouse were sitting in the break room sipping chamomile tea. Although there was sure to be fallout from the events of the last few weeks, they were glad the season had come to a close. Now it was time to relax among the rubble and be regular mice for a little while. Was it the tea soothing them? Or perhaps it was the unseen presence of Loud Mouse.

Curious Mouse: Well, we must have gotten their attention. Heh heh . . . look what a few little mice can do when they're motivated.

Quiet Mouse: You must have read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. There is a lot of cheese for thought in there.

Curious Mouse: Whatever it takes for inspiration.

Quiet Mouse: Talking about inspiration--there wouldn't haven't been any at all without Loud Mouse.

Curious Mouse: Yeah, I have a feeling Loud Mouse is tuned in to us and making us do our best.

Quiet Mouse: Yes, Loud Mouse guided us through the fog, all right. Hey! Do you think there's any Chardonnay in this forsaken place? We shoud make a toast to our inspirational pal.

The glasses were located, filled with the wine, and raised. After a few sips, the mice started to talk about whether they were going to follow all the media coverage of the season ending. When they were last seen and heard, they still hadn't decided what to do next.

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