White and Black

White Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and in the gargantuan house Mr. White was stirring, killing a mouse. He had first discovered it a week ago, firs only as a small pile of droppings by the coffee maker, and then a streak of movement one evening on the way to the bathroom. It was then only a matter of time before Mr. White zeroed in on his target. Were the mouse at all wise, it would have fled Manse Black and thanked the god of all things rodent that it had, even briefly, been able to take refuge in such a place. Unfortunately, this was a regular mouse and wisdom was a bit much to be expected.

“At last we meet.” Mr. White cracked his knuckles. His jaw worked back and forth, slowly, grinding his remaining teeth together. On the floor, inches from his feet, the mouse struggled in vain to scurry off of a sticky trap.

“Thought you could get away with it, didn’t ya? But you got careless. And, now, I win.”

From inside his suit jacket he pulled out a mallet and knelt down. Raising it over his head, he said “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.”

The sounds of Ode to Joy coming from his hip interrupted him mid-swing. Growling softly he took the call.

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. On my way, Sir.” He smiled tersely and put his phone away. “Should  have run when you had the chance.” The mallet came down without further hesitation, the wet smack reverberating loudly. The mouse burst like a ketchup packet, spraying entrails and fluids several feet in all directions. Mr. White released the mallet, leaving it with the mousey remains, and proceeded to the kitchen.

He made sure to scrub his hands thoroughly with soap and water before getting out a glass made from the world’s finest crystal. One couldn’t be too careful. Mice did carry the plague, after all. By that point the stove had heated, and he poured some milk into a small sauce pan and placed it on the burner. The large, immaculately clean kitchen filled with the gravely sounds of Mr. White humming. It vaguely sounded like Jingle Bells, but it could have also been a dirge. Fingernails meeting a chalkboard never sounded so good.

Once the milk was steaming, the burly manservant poured it into a mug and briskly made his way to Mr. Black’s room. A lesser servant would have taken several minutes to navigate the route, but Mr. White knew all the shortcuts and arrived at his master’s door with the drink still piping hot.

“Oh, do come in Mr. White,” said Mr. Black pleasantly. He was a diminutive man, balding, and with a large white mustache. His eyes perpetually twinkled like he was about to tell the punchline of a joke.

“Your warmed beverage, Sir,” said Mr. White, handing over the mug as he came in. The little man clapped lightly and took the drink happily.

“Ah, nothing like warm milk to aide with sleeping.”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir.”

“Well, you really should try it. Tonight, in fact. Right after you tuck me in. I insist.”

“If you insist, Sir.”

The milk should have still been warm enough to skald his tongue, but Mr. Black downed it without without any indication that it burned at all. He punctuated the large gulp with a satisfied sigh.

“No story tonight, Mr. White. I’m about to fall over as it is.” The small man climbed into a large four poster bed. Mr. White promptly pulled the fine, Egyptian silk bed sheets up and over him.

“Good night, Sir.”

“Good night, Mr. White,” said Mr. Black.

Ever courteous when it came to his employer, Mr. White turned off the light as he exited the room. He was actually entertaining the idea of fixing himself a mug of warm milk as had been recommended, when up on the rooftop there arose such a clatter. Instincts hardened by years of dirty deeds froze him in place. Clackity, clackity, scrip, thump, clackity!