Of Mice Beyond Mayhem
by Gyrotank
Preface
This story continues the plotline of Chris Fischer's graphic novel 'Of Mice and Mayhem'. It must not be considered an official sequel, because Chris took no part in it and thus it represents a very loose and very subjective interpretation of OMAM events and characters' relations, although some episodes were based on OMAM-2 sketches presented by Chris Fischer in 2003 during the annual Golden Acorn Award ceremony.
The characters created by Chris Fischer are used with his permission, although I took liberties to give some of them my own versions of their full names where appropriate. I also exchanged letters with Chris a couple of times in order to clarify some details, but all in all Chris bears no responsibility for this text. I am willing to concede that Chris would never write it this way, but, as we all surely know, fan creations are famous for throwing the characters into a mess their creators could never dream of even in their worst nightmares.
The CDRR fans will probably find some moments of the story too extreme or exaggerated for a Disney Afternoon show. Unfortunately, it can't be avoided since this story is OMAM-based fan fiction in the first place, and OMAM has already pushed the envelope far beyond the limits of the canon so, like it or not, I had to keep in line with it. Still, the story is a CDRR fan fiction, so a certain degree of cartoonism remains, too. I don't know whether I managed to balance these mutually exclusive components, but I honestly tried.
As usual, all characters of "Chip'n'Dale Rescue Rangers" cartoon series are property of the Walt Disney Corporation and are used without permission for the sole purpose of personal entertainment. Same is true for the characters created by authors of popular works of literature, cinema, TV, radio, and other media alluded and hinted on here and there throughout the text to liven the picture up. Other characters and all depicted events are products of author's imagination. There are also some real historical events mentioned in the text which the author interprets after his own fashion and at his own risk and asks the readers not to consider his views to be the only and absolute truth.
Some very important parts of the plot take place in the country ruled by the dictator whom Gadget assassinated in OMAM. Since he was clearly based on Saddahm Hussein, it's logical to assume that the country in question is Iraq. While its name isn't mentioned in OMAM, in Russian translation made by CDRRHQ members it was named 'Allahakbarnistan' (probably as allusion for the aforementioned Iraq which has the words 'Allah Akbar' on its state flag). But I thought that it was too pretentious and shortened it to 'Akbarnistan'. The geographical names associated with it were also made up, although I tried to make them similar to their real life prototypes for better and clearer binding to the corresponding geographical region.
Despite this, I sincerely ask the readers not to identify Akbarnistan as Iraq and the nearby country of Ayran — as Iran. I consider OMAM taking place not in the real world but in one of the Rangerverses which closely resembles our world but doesn't match it exactly. The same is true for other, real countries mentioned and described in the text since I have never been to them personally, know nothing about realities there and thus I ask my readers to consider these descriptions and thoughts about them a product not of scientific research but of pure imagination.
To cut the long preface short I want to cite Chris Fischer himself: 'Most importantly, it's all in fun. Enjoy.' I don't think anything needs to be added here.
Prologue
Information and Reflection
Day minus Twentieth, evening
"Thank you for spending the hour with us! The program was brought to you by Molly Waters-"
"-and Stan Blather! We and the whole Channel Six News team say goodbye to you and sincerely ask you not to switch channels since an upcoming commercial break will be immediately followed by the dialogue-show 'Nightfall Conversation' between the show's customary host Henry Dougherty and his new share of surprising guests! Stay with us!"
The floodlights on two masts went off and turned the pair of news anchors into black silhouettes merged with the equally black table against the background of flickering screens. Nevertheless, Stan's trademark grin vanished only when the chords of commercial break intro sounded from the speakers indicating that the viewers were seeing not the studio but the channel logo formed by numerous entangling elements. Stan exhaled mightily and almost made the papers laid on the table before him scatter. In the age of digital technology and transparent electronic prompters the papers were only props but still excelled at creating the hard work atmosphere and imbuing the detached observers with all the hardships associated with anchors' business at once.
"Put a bit more pep into it, Stan!" Waters noted half-jokingly, half-reproachfully.
"What for, Molly?" Blather asked rhetorically. He took his microphone off his lapel and pushed himself off from the table. "Nobody will ever see it."
"I will," Susan Spaulding, pretty brown-haired TV director wearing angular glasses and dark business suit objected. "And Lonny," she addressed the nearby cameraman. "Am I right, Lonny?"
"Right," Leonard 'Lonny' Kravitz confirmed without looking away from the camera he was adjusting. "What are we talking about?"
"Oh, come on. I know you heard everything!" Spaulding said.
"And saw everything," the cameraman added.
"Here, here, exactly! Got it, Stan?"
"Got it," Blather answered. "Lonny is like an old bison — sees everything he doesn't hear."
Suzy giggled. Lonny hemmed. Just like always.
Blather went around the table and squeezed himself past half-transparent decorative wall and a corner camera in the direction of studio exit. Dougherty was already waiting for him there, the thick aroma of expensive shaving crème and aura of a man who had a very good sleep and a supper in an exquisite restaurant spreading for some hundred feet around him.
"Not bad, Stanley, not bad at all," Henry slapped his hand on his colleague's shoulder. "The punch line on that loony farmer was kind of slurred, though. His problems are far beyond your scope, I know, but the anchor should pull up everything. You're giving out, old man."
"Thanks, you look great, too." Stan muttered. "Who's this time?"
Henry rolled his eyes. "Another potential 'idol'." He then leaned closer to Blather's ear and went on in softer voice. "By the way, but only between you and me, everything is already set there. The winner will be that guy, Nelson."
"I don't follow it, Henry-"
"You think I do? But it's one hundred percent guarantee! You can safely go and toto all your money! Don't waste the chance to rise your earnings quite a bit! But no names, mind you! Information is strictly top secret, okay?"
"Why don't you bet yourself?" Stan asked.
Dougherty grinned widely showing his pearl-white Hollywood teeth. "I did! So make haste! Each bet and each stage lowers the factor!"
"What do I owe you?"
Dougherty slightly pushed Stan with his elbow. "Skip it! Consider it a token of friendship. Okay, then, goodbye, it's my entrance!"
"Have a good show!" Blather wished him and stepped out into a corridor, blindingly white after studio's twilight. He greeted a pair of scarcely familiar co-workers and went to the men's room to splash some cold water on his face. Watching his fingers growing covered with rust-coloured stains, Stan looked in the mirror to see puffy face with bags under eyes previously hidden by make-up which was now running down in damp patches. Heart-rending sight, as distant from image of successful and prosperous Dougherty as 'American Idol' participants from real singers…
Maybe I should bet, after all? You never can tell, can you? Blather thought. He tore a paper napkin off a roll and blotted his face which grew spotty like giraffe's skin. If it goes wrong, it goes wrong.
They started working here almost simultaneously; Stanley Blather and Henry Dougherty nicknamed 'Hendog' for short. Today it's mentioned only in whisper and only by those who rose high enough to have no fear of Dougherty's wrath and, more importantly, libel action. For nowadays he was Henry the Magnificent, the creator and host of the highest rated night TV show of the last four seasons. His astounding success made people amazed and perplexed at the same time, and despite their friendship even Stan couldn't help but wonder whether Henry received information on the 'Idol' winner because of his status or he acquired his status because he knew how to get such information. In any case, lean and handsome showman had clear advantage over stooping and plump reporter and periodic co-anchor of 5 AM and 11 PM newsreel who had used all his chances up and whose best years were in the past.
"Stan, tomorrow you are our early morning anchor! Be fit!" Suzy shouted from the far end of the corridor when Stan stepped out of the men's room having exterminated three more napkins. Twenty three years ago, when he heard exactly the same phrase from Spaulding's predecessor, Serena 'the Steel Lady' Steele, he was in the seventh heaven and ran down the corridor as if having wings. This time he simply waved his hand to confirm the message reception and slowly walked towards elevators. Even in comparison with their shining doors, not to mention many of those who started working here on the same year as him and by now has either moved to the station's administrative building on East 79th street or, like Dougherty, was running his or her own projects, Blather's life looked like a failure.
No one could call him lazy. Quite the contrary, he sweated his guts out, travelled the country all over from Cape Canaveral to Mount McKinley and told his viewers lots and lots of breathtaking stories. Some ten years ago it was enough to be considered venerable master. But Stan came just a bit too late, and his career's zenith coincided with information and communication boom of the end of the previous decade. Stan was a little too old for all that and involuntarily gave way to fresh graduates of technical colleges with poor diction but good nose for technological trends. These fledglings of the twenty first century didn't leave even a ghost of a chance to pterodactyls of the 90's, just like modern sport sedans easily beat his good but too old second generation Ford Taurus, once the most popular car in the US. A prominent example of how similar the fates of the thing and its owner can be.
Stan passed one hundred and twenty-eight feet between the elevator and his parking place on pure muscle memory, rubbing his suddenly aching head and knowing that with each passing year these night shifts would become harder and harder for him to bear. He used to consider his profession the best and each working day inimitable, but all passed years turned it into a drag for sooner or later you grow tired of everything, even diversity, not to mention that if you come to think of it you'll notice that it can be reduced to a set of constantly repeating actions.
It was true even now, for when Stan got into his car, he once again asked the fate to give him a chance; just one more chance to do something really important, something that would add his name to the annals of history or, at the very least, to Wikipedia. Then, like every other day, he switched the engine on and drove home along the road learned by heart, not knowing that his wish was about to come true.
As usual, nothing heralded it. There were no wonders or omens. That is, if you discount the red traffic light on the intersection of Lexington Avenue and East 62nd street which stayed on for almost thrice as long as usual. Soon impatient horns started rending through the air, some drivers even left their cars, and the most impulsive cursed the aforementioned lights, the municipal utility services and perpendicular traffic at the same time. In other words, Middle Manhattan was living its ordinary life when the rear right door of Stan Blather's silver Taurus standing in the second lane opened and let in some very suspicious person wearing mostly dark grey clothes and black balaclava with holes for his eyes and mouth only.
"Don't move, don't shout and don't do anything stupid" the stranger ordered and emphasized his words with loud click which Stan, having seen many thrillers in his life, instantly recognized as a sound of a pistol hammer cocking.
"I-I h-have l-l-little cur-r-rency…" Stan managed to force out. "Y-you c-can take my p-phone and my c-car but it is o-o-old and-"
"I don't need your belongings, Mister Blather. I need you. Your help, to be exact." The stranger's voice was level and completely emotionless. Only Stan's rich experience of talking with his mother-in-law allowed him to detect slight and almost undistinguishable Midwestern accent.
"H-h-help? B-but I don't help s-street rob-bers- W-wait a m-minute, I know m-my name?"
"I know more about us than you can imagine, Stan. That's why I turned to you. Shall we drive?"
"Wh-where? Wh-what for?"
"Come on, Stan, if I wanted to kill you I'd have done it long ago. My gun's equipped with silencer and no one would have noticed my coming and going in this mess. Do I still look like street robber to you?"
"Well…" Stan hesitated, having no idea how to explain the stranger his feelings without getting shot.
The stranger's thick lips broke into smile. "All right, I'll show you some street magic then." He took out small control resembling a car lock key-ring except for thin metal antenna, extended his hand to allow Blather see everything and pressed the green button. The traffic lights on the opposite side of the street changed into yellow, and everybody rushed back to their cars. "Do I still look like street robber to you?" The stranger asked again.
"Wh-who are you?" Blather muttered.
"You may call me David."
"David-" Stan choked. Now, with immediate threat to his life seemingly gone, his fear changed into annoyance. "You humble me, right? 'Street magic', 'David'… You're just-" His rant was interrupted by a loud horn blow, this time addressed to him personally. The cars in the other lanes were moving already.
"Don't be a fool, Mister Blather," the stranger said; his voice as cold as graveyard frost. "As you can see, it took me quite some efforts to arrange our meeting. I really need your help and I consider you very valuable as a specialist. But my own security and security of my comrades is much more valuable to me, that's why if anything goes wrong, I won't hesitate to put a bullet through your head and through the head of the driver behind us. As you can see, he's already sticking his head out of the car and soon will come here. He's Italian, which means he's impulsive and has many children. And now his life is in your hands and legs, Stan. Drive."
The sweating reporter nodded nervously and switched gears. "Where are we going?"
"Central Park."
"Central- Okay, okay, I got it! I'm driving!"
"Good. And one more thing: don't try to fool me. I know New York."
Blather nodded and after driving through the intersection moved to the rightmost lane. His unnamed passenger leaned back on his seat and glanced into the window. "I love Manhattan."
"Yes," Blather gave an irrelevant answer while turning on East 61st.
'David' smiled with his lips only. "You hold your own very well."
"Really? I was told today that I'm getting too old."
"Who said that?"
"A friend."
"He doesn't know you," 'David' stated.
"He's my old friend," Stan objected.
"I bet he never held you at gunpoint."
Blather coughed. "Have to admit we never went that far."
"We won't, too, if you stop pretending being a hero and asking the police to stop us for exceeding speed limit," 'David' informed him pointing at the speedometer with his glance.
"Sorry!" Stan released the foot-throttle. "I just got lost in thoughts, I swear!"
"Stop swearing and keep driving," 'David' ordered. Blather obeyed and they drove steadily two blocks westward exchanging urgings, excuses and meaningless phrases from time to time.
"Where should I go?" Blather asked stopping at the intersection bordering on the realm of trees and bushes.
"Drive up along Madison to the 66th and turn left."
Blather nodded, wondering to himself whether he's willingly driving straight into his grave. The stranger's arguments were reasonable, but the green oasis in the centre of Manhattan was just too dark and deserted at this time-
"Don't miss the turn," 'David' prompted when Stan showed no indications of slowing down.
"Yes, yes, sure," Blather braked down slightly sharper than it was needed and turned on the Transverse road no. 1 running deep under already thinning canopies of the park trees.
"Turn here."
"On the Park road?" the reporter decided to check.
"Yes."
"But it's closed for traffic at night!"
"Trust me, Stan; it should be the least of your concerns at the moment."
"I trust you," Blather agreed, wondering why 'David' makes such a compromising move. The cars were forbidden to enter the Park after 7 PM, and the violator immediately attracted attention of NYPD…
What if he got everything under control here, just like on that intersection? Stan mused. Well, we'll find it out soon… Having switched turn signals in advance, he steered the car towards a wide road which at night time belonged to runners, bicyclists and other fans of fresh air. Stan broke into sweat expecting at any given second to see distinctive flashers of a police car hidden in the bushes, but everything was quiet.
"The patrol will be here in twenty two minutes," 'David' informed him. "We'll make it unless you do something stupid. Drive off the road and shut the engine."
Blather obeyed. He has calmed down somewhat and even started to feel some trust towards his passenger, but still in his thoughts he bid silent farewell to his wife, son and two daughters. Just in case. "Now what?" he asked when the engine died and they sat alone in silence and darkness.
"Tell me, Stan, are you a patriot?"
"Well, I like my country," Stan answered, his heart wringing with fear as he tried to guess the name of the terrorist group 'David' belonged to, and how many wrong answers he is allowed to give before he will be shot.
"Do you believe in the freedom of press and citizens' right for information?" 'David' asked.
"Yes, of course!"
"Are you ready to put everything you have at risk for the sake of telling people the truth?"
Blather gulped nervously. "I assume if I say 'no', you'll kill me?"
"Do you want to say 'no'?"
"I don't know. It's a difficult question. Besides, I do have something to lose-"
"Right. That's exactly the man we need: patient and reasonable and who won't mess things up."
Blather forced himself to chuckle. "You flatter me."
"I don't think so. So what is your answer?" 'David' pressed.
"Do I have a choice?" Despite being scared, Stan's voice sounded venomously.
"Of course you do. It's like two pills, remember? You say 'no', I leave, and you never see me again and remain a Channel Six reporter serving the rest of his work term in the shadows of his more successful colleagues. Or you may say 'yes' and, quite possible, one fine day become a National Headliner Award winner."
Blather gasped at the perspectives opened before him, but his inborn mistrust prevailed. "You'll just get out and leave? You'll leave me alive after everything?"
"What 'everything'?" 'David' inquired. "You don't know who I am or what I wanted to ask you. You won't prove anything; your colleagues will think you try to enhance your reputation, and the police will think that you got drunk and dreamt it all up. If I kill you, that will stir a sensation, but as it is, you are of no danger to us."
"Whom 'us'"?
The stranger grew instantly serious. "Those who care about this country. Those who believe that only upholding the Constitution and civil freedoms will save it. We are numerous, though, I must admit, we generally don't know of one another. That's why you, Stan, should become the engine of our common cause."
"Why me?"
"First, because you love this country. Second, because you were there?"
Blather frowned. "There? I've been to many places-"
"The Capitol. Washington Peace Summit."
A fast-forwarded footage reeled before Stan's mind's eye. The President's speech. The delayed release of peace dove. The rodent incident. And an impenetrable cover of mystery shrouding the events of those several days including the story of The First Chipmunk who vanished as unexpectedly as he appeared.
"Yes, I remember that," he said.
"What do you remember exactly?"
"Some chipmunk almost ruined the ceremony. The security shot him, but he survived. The First Lady personally performed his surgery and the First Daughter nursed him. On that very night, if memory serves me, there was an explosion in a nearby ward. It killed MacMillan, CIA special ops director or something like that. They said it was an accident at first, but then it turned out that someone was going to kidnap or kill the chipmunk, but MacMillan saved him, paying with his life. Basically, that's all I know."
"In that case, you would really want to see this." 'David' said and dropped a flat DVD case on the passenger seat next to Blather.
"What's it?" the reporter asked, looking at the case in awe. It looked like an ordinary blank disk with no markings except branding designations, like all those sold on every self-respecting corner. But Stan couldn't take his eyes off it.
"Truth," 'David' answered promptly. "So, will you help us?"
Stan extended his hand towards the disk, but at the very last moment his suspiciousness got the upper hand. "But why did you come to me?"
"I told you. Because-"
"I remember what you told me!" Blather was overrun with emotions and he didn't even notice himself interrupting the man who had him in sights of his gun. "There were plenty of journalists there!"
'David' shrugged. "Well, we had to start with someone, didn't we?"
"Start?" Blather narrowed his eyes. Now it was his greed speaking. "So, I'm just one of-"
"If you reject our offer, you will be 'just one of'. Just one of grey mass of reporters doomed to speak in their mike whatever they are ordered to. Like I said, you aren't dangerous to us. If you say no, we'll find someone more patriotic. Or more vain. Someone who will seize his chance. People must know the truth, that's what important. We don't really care who will open their eyes, you or Henry Dougherty or else..."
'David's words hit the mark. Mentioning Stan's old friend and rival worked magic on the reporter, and in a blink of an eye the disk was moved from the seat to glove compartment.
"I knew we'll come to agreement," the Midwest native observed with satisfaction. "Take it all very seriously. You can fire a gun of this calibre only once. You should make the shot count."
"I'll do everything I can," the reporter answered. "Though I still don't quite understand why you came to me and not to Jim Hoffman, our regular investigator, for instance. He's got both experience and connections."
"He has," 'David' nodded. "But, just like every other known specialist in the field, he's also got tails. Good luck, Stan. You're our hope now."
"But-" the stunned reporter blurted, but 'David' had already left the car, shut the door and crossed an alley in quick pace, vanishing in the surrounding bushes. Blather was alone. He looked in the direction where 'David' went, then opened the glove container to make sure the disk is there and it wasn't some kind of dream, then lowered his head on the steering wheel. The headache was back, but this time it was pleasant, for it was caused by an urge to act, not by dreary emptiness he had felt before.
The reporter couldn't tell how long he had been sitting there when a flashlight beam hit him in the eyes, and there was a loud and persistent knocking on the driver's door's window. Blather jerked up, almost hitting a rear-view mirror with his head, and lowered the glass. There were coloured blots dancing in his eyes, but he still recognized a dark-blue uniform with a seven-point star of NYPD Auxiliary Police. There were two officers. One was standing right next to the door, his hand clasping a club he was knocking at the window with. Another one stood in ten feet or so, his left hand holding the flashlight directed at Blather, and his right on his holster.
"Good evening, officers," the reporter said the first thing he came up with.
"Your ID, please," the knocking officer commanded. It was a brawny bearded man with heavy features whose short height allowed him not to lean too low to look inside the car. Blather as slowly as required took out his driver's license from his pocket and handed it over. The officer closely examined the photo and meticulously compared it with the original. "No parking allowed here. How long have you been here?" he asked.
"About half an hour," Blather answered honestly.
"So you came here after seven PM?" the policeman queried.
"Yes, officer."
"What are you doing here?"
"Having a rest. I know it's against the rules, I just had some hard day," Blather said, telling absolute truth.
"I see. Sir, please get out of the car."
"Is anything wrong? I-"
"Sir!" the officer repeated, taking a step back and putting his hand on his holster. Blather opened the door and got out of the car with his hands outstretched and palms turned outwards. He knew what was going to happen next, and started to turn his back to the policemen before they commanded him to face the car and put his hands on the roof. The officer didn't like such foresight. He hit Blather's left ankle to make him move his legs further apart, then quickly and fiercely slapped every place where a weapon could be theoretically concealed. "Check inside," he told his partner.
Stan broke into sweat and flinched. The officers noticed that and became even more vigilant. The brawny man's partner, a tall lean blond man with cleanly shaven chin which seemed too massive for his constitution, looked in all the nooks and crannies and surely found a thing to seize on.
"What's on that disk in the glove compartment?"
"Disk?" Blather licked his dry lips. "That's- that's materials! For my programme! I'm a reporter! Channel Six!"
The blond man knitted his brow. "What's his name again, Bob?"
"Blather, Stan."
The blond officer snapped his fingers. "Right, Blather! I remember it sounded like Chevrolet. Channel Six, of course! I know you, you covered the First Chipmunk story!"
"Yes, it was me," the reporter smiled nervously. Having met 'David', any mention of that story made him feverish.
"Well, nice to meet you! Too bad we met under these circumstances. The car rules are very strict in the park, especially after hours."
"Yes, yes, I know!" Stan nodded. "I just- This is my favourite place, a memorable one, and I couldn't help-"
"I see. But I don't remember catching you here before. It's your first time, right?"
"Yes! It's my first! I know the rules!" Blather agreed. Still, his answer made the policeman grew even more suspicious.
"Open your trunk please."
"My trunk? Of course, just a moment..."
The policemen obviously expected to find a dead body or at least a couple of machine guns there, but when they saw the trunk was empty, their mood changed into a confiding one.
"Mister Blather, is everything really alright? Don't you want to report anything? Blackmail, extortion, threats?"
So caring, come to think of it! Blather thought. They just nailed it. Maybe I should tell them everything? Who knows what that 'David' is really up to. I have the disk, it's a bulletproof evidence!
And a key to his National Headliner Award.
"No, officers," the reporter shook his head with conviction. "Thank you for caring, but there's nothing criminal about it. Well, except driving along the closed road."
"Well, in that case, you'll have to pay fine," the blond officer spoke in business-like manner. "How much is it, Bob?"
"A solid sum. But I'm out of tickets."
"Really?" the other officer checked his pockets. "You won't believe it, but me too! We have so many offenders you need to carry a roll with you!"
"Out of tickets?" Blather was dumbfounded. "What now then?"
"Well," the brawny man named Bob scratched his chin, "we've got two options. First, we can bring you to the station and process everything there. But that will take too much time, and we still need to check half of the park."
"And what's the other option?"
"The other option? Hmm... You said it's your first offense?"
"Yes, the very first one!"
"What do you think, Jay?"
"I think we can issue a verbal warning."
"Yes, I think that will do it. What do you think, Mister Blather?"
"Well, I-" it took Stan several seconds to gather his thoughts. "I don't know what to say... Thank you! It won't happen again, I promise!"
"Okay, we believe you," Jay winked at the reporter. "I always say you should befriend the press. Maybe they will start to treat us like humans, and not like some robots wearing uniform. I'm not speaking of you personally, Stan, but some of your colleagues- But let's not delve into unpleasantness. Good luck to you!"
"You too!" Blather wished back.
The policemen resumed their walk along the alley. The reporter got inside his car and drove in the opposite direction. He still couldn't believe his luck. It was definitely his day today. First this unexpected story having all the potential to become a nationwide sensation. Then the cops ran out of tickets... Maybe that was it? Maybe he finally caught the wave that would bring him up to the shining summits?
I wish it were... Stan thought as he joined the southbound traffic. The other drivers paid no attention to him having no idea there was a true Pandora's Box slowly moving alongside them.