Chapter Text
“Not again!!”
After a loud thump on the dining table, followed by a string of family-approved expletives, Ralph Hollow complained about the mice they must have because everything he baked the last few weeks was gone or partly eaten.
"This cake has been under attack — someone’s had a nibble again!”
Whether it was the lemon bars or his lovingly piped macarons—something was always missing! Judging by the scale, it couldn’t have been just one mouse—it had to be an entire rodent battalion!
First he thought his grandchildrens were the culprits, but by using non gluten-free flour and less sugar it was clear they were not guilty for this crime. And one thing stood out his sharp mind didn’t miss:
a specific ingredient clearly influenced which treats disappeared the fastest.
So one day, with the house empty, since the children were at a party, he seized the moment to unleash his frustration without holding back.
Being fed up and done with it, he laid a glue trap right before bed time like a man on a mission, putting it in the dark to avoid any spies.
“This time, I will catch the sneaky little thief in the act!”
As bait, he placed a plate of freshly baked brownies under clear plastic wrap on the counter next to the sink, strategically perforated so the scent of baked goodness could sneak into every corner of the room.
Now it was just a waiting game.
Later at night, he took position on the couch, hidden under a blanket, ears sharp and ready — just like back in his glory days in the army.
Operation: Brownie Trap was underway!
As the glowing digits on his alarm clock slipped past midnight, he knew the moment had come. A faint rustle… then the soft patter of tiny feet skimming across the floor. And then — nothing. Just silence.
For a split second, he feared the trap might have failed after all and he would lose again against this little glutton.
But then….
“Aaaah!”
…a cry?
Mice didn't cry like that.
With a dramatic flourish, he threw off the blanket and leapt into action, armed with nothing but a spatula, and charged straight to the scene of the crime which he illuminated with a bystanding table lamp.
“Aha!”
He had already raised his arm, ready to deliver justice with a well-aimed blow — but froze mid-swing. In the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, it became clear: there was unmistakably no mouse in the trap.
It was a young man. A tiny young man, no taller than four or five inches, shrouded in different shades of gray and black who writhed in the yellow sticky mess of the mousetrap, struggling to free himself with growing frustration. He froze when the human popped out of nowhere, his eyes locking onto Ralph’s. His glare was sharp — a mix of anger, humiliation, and a flicker of fear.
“Now that’s a cockamamie situation,” stated the old man with slight astonishment in his voice and put his spatula away. He scratched his head briefly, had never figured he'd run into something that sounded like one of his neighbour's wild imaginations come to life.
“Anyway, I can't leave you here like that!”
But hovering his hand above this little figure only occured to make it panic and stick more to the sheet it was attached right now.
“Hey! Quit squirming, or I’m slapping you on my fridge like a souvenir magnet!”
The words hit home, and the tiny thing went completely still, not daring to move a muscle.
“That's more like it. Be patient, it will take some time to get you off the trap, little thief.”
Ralph switched on some nearby small lamp and opened a sideboard to get a bottle of olive oil. With a kitchen towel he carefully dabbed it over the glued parts and after letting it sit for a short while, he began to cautiously peel the stubborn little creature off the mat, bit by bit. It wasn't exactly cooperative, but it also seemed to be freed as fast as possible.
“Don't you dare to bite me or I'll bite you back!” Ralph gave him a warning before he managed to pull the little man off completely. The other shot him a wary, almost hostile glare — eyes narrowed, full of suspicion and quiet defiance.
Gently, Ralph placed him down on the countertop — and the little thing was already quick to bolt, only to be stopped cold by the gray-haired man’s large, paw-like hand barring its escape.
“Now hold on, pal! You're not gonna scurry off and leave greasy little footprints all over my kitchen! Not on my watch!”
In one smooth motion, the large man reached for a nearby bowl, set it in the sink to fill it with warm, soapy water, and with care lowered the tiny one in — like a grumpy parent giving a baby its first-ever bath.
It all went down so quickly, the young man just sat there, dumbfounded, looking like he had no idea what hit him.
After making sure the little one couldn’t make another run for it, Ralph opened the cabinet below the sink and pulled out a pink toothbrush. Without batting an eye, he snapped the small head off the handle, making the bather flinch in alarm — but then calmly held it out to him.
“Wash yourself, little thief,” he said, dry as dust — the kind of voice that didn’t invite backtalk.
The little young man shot the broken toothbrush head a doubtful look. But if he wanted to slip away again, he'd have no choice but to play the old man's game. With narrowed eyes, he took it, scrutinizing the giant and started to shrub everything though this thing was much too big for him.
Yet he did as he was told, and soon enough he was doused with water and lifted out of the basin into a bread basket with a dish towel inside. He must admit, the human did this quite gingerly, but that didn't automatically make him trustworthy at all.
“Now to your criminal deeds against my baked goods, pal!” Ralph planted his hands on his hips and hovered menacingly over the suspect he was interrogating.
But the little one remained defiant, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to even look at him.
“Oh, playing the silent game, are we? Not with me, young man! I know how to make even the toughest ones sing.”
The old man grabbed the brownie-laden plate, ripped off the plastic wrap to make the suspect perk up and finally look his way. His look was cold and unyielding as he held the plate over the sink.
“Talk or these chocolate filled absolute delicious gems will meet the garbage disposer!”
"No, don't!" Dropping to his knees from where he sat, the tiny scamp bent forward sharply, urging the other person to stop.
With that, Ralph had secured victory in the interrogation, approached the little one and wagged his finger at him, putting the plate aside.
“So, little thief, are you a spy of this despicable Diane Forenski?!”
Silence hung in the air, and the suspect’s expression twisted as though his questioner had just asked if the moon was made of cheese.
“Who?”
Ralph squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow. With his top-tier grandpa instincts and years of decoding his grandkids' nonsense stories, he could tell the pint-sized delinquent didn’t have the faintest clue who Ralph’s sworn enemy was.
“Okay, at least one good news. Then who are you and why do you break into my house, ravaging my pastries?!”
The rejection crept back into his posture, and the little scoundrel retreated into the basket once more, turning his back to dodge any incoming questions.
Oh boy, this could be a long night.
Ralph let his eyes drift across the kitchen counter, thinking maybe a little treat would get his uninvited guest to open up. He picked up a brownie from the stack and placed it on a small saucer. Then, taking a knife, he carefully cut one mini corner of it and offered everything with a quiet gesture.
Warily, the brows of the little thief arched and he glanced sideways. The temptation was immense—almost irresistible—and before you knew it, he had grabbed the bigger piece and sank his teeth into it. Ralph eyed the tiny corner left behind and smiled to himself, amused.
“A pint-sized gourmet, hm?”
The gray haired man pinched the crumb-sized brownie between his large fingers and flicked it into his mouth.
Just as he was about to say something, he heard loud chatter coming from outside and the front door creaked open and his grandchildren swept in—returning from the party a bit later than agreed, but with a disastrously perfect timing.
In a moment of sheer panic, Ralph seized a thick towel and dropped it over the bread basket, trapping the tiny culprit beneath.
Looks like things just got a bit more complicated.
To be continued…