SmokeLong Quarterly

A paper mouse, Das Fliedermaus, was in the mood for beer on tap. Steins of it! Liters of it! The Flyer was a German mouse and Germany is drunk and metric.

He filled a tub for one good scrub, then dressed himself in velveteen—ach! deep and green was his true hue—a loden green, that made his eyes his ears his teeth shine all the sharper.

He stood beside der Autobahn, the better to extend his thumb, the better to procure a ride, a rocking rolling hitchenmaus. A snowman (Peter) in a truck—und barrelstein, und kinderkastle—picked him up. They toured a mountain, curve by swerve: der Kleiner Feldberg, frosty tundra melten all das springerwassen.

They found a dive a dump a bar with whores and gamblers, high-noon gunmen bodies stacked like cordwood.

Peter and the paper mouse found chairs and table, dove beneath it when air-raid sirens shrieked.

I really want that beer, said Peter.