A City Mouse once visited a relative who lived in the country. For lunch the Country Mouse took his elite East Coast cousin to the local Cracker Barrel for Country Fried Steak with a side of Onion Petals. The City Mouse ate very sparingly, nibbling at a plate of Impossible Sausage, and drinking her coffee black—even though, as the waitress noted, there was plenty of sugar and creamer right there on the table.
After the meal the two had a long talk, or rather the Country Mouse talked about how much of a hellscape the City in which his cousin lived was. They then went to bed in a nest in an abandoned building in the nearby town’s main street, which had fallen on hard times since the steel wool factory closed.
The next day the City Mouse asked the Country Mouse where he was getting his information about the City. She said that in the 20 years she’d lived there, she had never experienced any of the things the Country Mouse had so vividly described. “Sure, there are rats there, but there are rats here, too—we spent last night running away from them when they wanted our nest.”
“There is so much hate in your heart,” said the Country Mouse. “Even so, I will come to your City to see the desolation first hand.”
They hopped aboard a commuter train and soon found themselves on the street where the City Mouse lived. Strolling through the bright lights, they passed a bodega where there were many foods that maybe a Marxist would like, such as felafel and French salad dressing. The Country Mouse noticed that many of the people shopping there were not the right color for people to be. “This whole place is on fire,” he said. The City Mouse looked around, confused.
“I don’t understand, are we looking at the same—”
“COMMUNISTS!” yelled the Country Mouse, pointing at a pair of hipsters riding fixie bikes. “Sodom and Gomorrah!” he added, as a couple of male mice scampered by—they weren’t holding hands or anything, but he could tell. Just then a chonky cat exited the bodega and waddled up to the mice. “Hey guys—” the cat began, and the Country Mouse pulled out his firearm, an XLV (45) derringer.
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy!” said the City Mouse. “I know this cat, he’s my neighbor.”
“Pervert!” said the Country Mouse. “This is why we need to bring in the National Mouse Guard, to teach you a less—I mean, to stop all the crime!”
“What crime?” his cousin asked, but the Country Mouse was already scampering away.
He avoided the train because honestly, what sort of reasonable mice would ever put themselves through that horror. It took him weeks, but finally, with aching paws, he arrived back in the Country, where he was immediately eaten by a stray dog.
Moral: They’re not sending their best mice.
