In my house, there lives a hot tempered mouse. His name's Fred. Fred G. Baker. He works part time for minimum wage at a shoe string factory in the crummy part of town, in the hole under the bathroom sink. Every morning he makes his commute up the stairs, over three rooms, through the kitchen and into the bathroom. He was a wife and five children, and as you can imagine, with a part-time, minimum wage job, it's not easy to make ends meet. Everyday at work his task is to put the plastic ends on the tip of the shoestrings. That seems like a pretty simple job, but noting is ever simple for a mouse. One day, he registers his name being called. FRED!! FRED G. BAKER!!! It was is his boss, Mr. K. Ratt. Fred has been assigned a job. He is to go and get extra wax from the neighboring factory. That means (gulp) that Fred has to cross... the yard. Fred sets off across the yard cautiously. He is wondering why the yard seems so quiet. Then as if out of nowhere... Stacey, the neighbor's black and white cat appears.(double gulp) There's a meow and a flash of claws and fur. Poor Fred the hot tempered mouse is never heard from again.