Cream Filling

Cream Filling

A short story by ___
___  -  11/14/06

         It was about midnight in the small town of Dillsboro, Ohio. Every single light was out, the windows shut, and the shop windows closed for the morning. A man named Rob Pearson was busily locking up the local supermarket. The man was in his 60’s. He wore large baggy pants, a collared shirt with a small nametag and tie that didn’t match, and an oily toupee to hide his baldness. He was looking around anxiously, as if he was hiding from someone. And as soon as he got into his ancient ‘65 Chevy pickup, and drove off to his motor home, something did indeed happen.
         “Ok, greasy hair, gone.”
“Great. We’ve just unlocked the back and are heading in for yogurt. See if you    can tackle the big one.”
         “Roger.”
Sergeant Crème, of the Junk food division, was happy. He had just been assigned the best task of them all, although one that had never been finished. He and the corporals headed up to the locked door while the privates began to chew at the tough plastic. It was hard and had many bite marks. The door itself was very old, and the bites of the past expeditions had caused the door to become even more fragile and unstable. However, it had held against constant chewing and gnawing. But, the lock had suffered as well.  And, on this particular night, they were in luck. The handle broke off, landing with a thud on the pavement. Suddenly, their job had just gotten much easier.
         The corporals and privates worked together to pry the door open with a discarded toothpick. Eventually, the toothpick broke, and they fetched a golf tee from the parking lot. This one held, and the door slowly swung open.
         “This is Junk Food. We’ve just cleared the inner barrier.”
“Great!” came the reply from Dairy and Grain. “How far are you to the target?
“About 500 inches.”
“Nice job, Sergeant. Stay on track.”
They marched through the deserted supermarket. There were no sounds, except for muffled voices from the milk section. They were on track. At last, they saw the heaven that was the pastry aisle. Hidden along its magic shelves there were such treats as Devil Dogs, Table Top Pies, and his long-time favorite, Twinkies. These delectable delights were so rare they had only been taken by the legendary Pie group. Now, they were making history. The men helped each other to climb up the steep ledges. Once up, they would use the golf tee to poke any sugary snacks off the shelves. The sweets would fall down like angels from above. After they had all they could carry, the men jumped down and would push them out of the aisle and into the main hallway. After that, it was just a simple push to the door. That is, if their transmission mikes wouldn’t have rang.
         “Junk Food, this is Soup, over.”
         “Read you loud and clear. What’s the issue?”
“We’ve detected another object inside the building. Something large and it’s heading towards your coordinates.”
Now Sgt. Crème was worried. The building was old and had been known to have          
hidden dangers, including the great bird scourge of ’98. He shuddered to think of the finches boring down on the men like B-52 bombers. Instead he ordered his men to take only what they could push while running. The other groups had found the dot on their radar as well. Small shouts and commands could be heard from all aisles. He checked his own radar. A gigantic red dot was aiming straight at them, with surprisingly good accuracy. But they were faster, and running with the speed of two slugs would help them.
         “Fruit and Vegetable reporting! We’re in big trouble!”
         “What? What’s your status?”
         The transmission crackled, and started to become softer and softer. They could barely understand audible words.
         “Our men… torn… ferocious… animal… help…”
         Just then, the line went dead. Sgt. Crème swore under his breath. Why? Why of all nights? The men were huddled together, with scared looks on their faces. But Sgt. Crème was not going out without a fight.
         “C’mon men, pull yourselves together and let’s fight this menace!”
         Maybe it was his heroic speech, or just the fact that the soldiers couldn’t live without Saint Delilah’s Mangos in Syrup, but whatever the reason, they started to look braver.
         “Now, do you want brussel sprouts or not?”
         “Is that a trick question?”
         “No, it’s not! Now let’s go save those men!”
         And so they ran into the Veggie aisle, directly where the red spot was. As they turned the corner, they could hear screams and wails. He was starting to have second thoughts, but thought better of it, and charged into the lane, with sharp pencils out and battle cries galore. Right in front of them was a huge furry lump. They could see the bodies of fallen comrades around it, so they approached stealthily. One of the men was having a bad time, having received no encouragement from the speech or the mangoes, and let out a large squeak for the world to hear. As soon as he screamed, the furry lump began to unravel like a boa constrictor. Two ginger colored arms popped out, while the same happened with the legs. Pointy ears that had been tucked under plucked up, and two eyes opened slowly, along with a large set of grinning teeth. Finally, a striped tail came out the bottom. This confirmed the Sergeant’s fears.
         “CAAAAAT!!” he screamed.
         Armed with only pencils, the men tried in vain to poke and maybe dismantle, but it was useless. A pair of nicely sharpened claws brushed them aside. Most of the men were left lying on the ground, groaning in pain. And finally, as if it was meant for him, the cat turned his eyes on the sergeant.
         “Bonjour, leader mouze. My name is Jean Pierre. I come from the wonderful lands of Franze to scourge vermin from zee houses and stores. I have been employed by my superiors to eliminate all zee mize inzide this festering sewer. It seems that you are zee leader of zis rebellion. Vell then, I vill just have to eat you, too!”  All of this which he said in a bad French accent.
         But Sergeant Crème had other ideas. He took his sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga in hand, and charged at the cat.
         “Ja, Ja! The other mize have tried, vut vhat makes you think you can defeat mua?” as it unsheathed its claws. “I vill bat you aside like the bat you are!
         But Sergeant Crème didn’t charge head on. Instead, he used the pencil like a pole vault, and flung himself up to a high shelf, one that just happened to be filled with cans of olives. He started to roll them down like barrels, hitting the cat one by one, but just enough to knock him out.
         “No! Zis is unfair! I have no cans which I can roll at you!”
         “Yeah, but did my friends have a fair chance?”
         The cat started to grow tipsy. Eventually he fell over from loss of balance. With a strange smile on his face, he said, “No more olives, s’il vous plait, monsieur.”
         The soldiers started to rise, as though they had been through a deep sleep. Many of them preferred to stay curled up on the floor, sleeping like babies. They saw the cat toppled over, and cheered. Sergeant Crème smiled. Now maybe they could get back to the history-making.