A freebie:
Lord Gatsby the Fly-Catcher Mouse: Book Burning on the Farm
Old Lord Gatsby sat on the veranda in a white linen suit, sipping rye in the quiet of the evening. He was warm and sluggish, but content. He took a small sip of whiskey and then sat very still, until the moment when he snapped his long tongue out at a passing bluebottle fly, snatching the fat black body from the air as it buzzed past his head.
Beyond the shade of the catalpas, out on the bright distant stretch of lawn that unfolded to the gurgling edge of Hedgehog Creek, his servants were building a bonfire, in which they planned to burn an old chiffarobe, a vanity, and a teetering pile of baudy mid-twentieth century novels that had recently piqued the interest of the town Decency Monitor, an officious but extremely well-bred woman named Margot Turbot who smelled faintly of vinegar and invariably wore the same delicate shoes of brown eelskin that her mother had worn before her.
Homeland Security was of paramount importance, as Lord Gatsby knew, so Miss Margot had charged him with rounding up the offending novels from local school children. It was a privileged task he was glad to undertake, and he set about searching children's rooms, overturning their pillows, poking into their small deerskin mocassins and dressinggown pocketses. The books, mostly well-thumbed paperbacks, were now collected, and sat at the edge of the widening circle of flame. Gatsby had decided to turn all the Salingers and Orwells and other detritus into useful ashes to scatter as a light mulch on his overwintering yellow roses. The roses were precious to him, each as dearly loved as the next, though their faded petals had long since fallen to the ground.
Snap. A juicy bluebottle. A sip of rye. The life of a rich and chubby 21st century mouse is a good one, he thought to himself, letting his eyelids droop in the humid heat, the orange-golden sun skidding the brim of his white Panama hat.
