They tore at his whiskers. He squealed and bit in the tail of the one that hissed nearby, a few inches by the pipe that opened into gutters. The one nearby moved his massive body a second too late. They all will be doomed, from the tips of their pink tiny tones to the tips of their furry tails, to the very last hair at the very end of each of their ears. All three of them, destined to be swallowed by the vast expanse of slimy gluttony called WOOZEL LAND, ruled by the fattest of them all, with lines of skin rolling in undauntedly clusters on his neck, from brown to beige to a creamy type of white, the result of eating too many pellets of ferret food as proudly produced by Fake VOLE & Co.
He sighed and proceeded to chewing the tail, cleverly using his maneuver to distract the big one and knock the skinny one off balance, all in one swift move with a terrifying look, a special clucking noise as from an angry chicken. Annoyed and hissing, the big one rolled on his back, straining to pull the tail out of his teeth and escape into the gutter, before it would be too late. Before the impending doom would cover them all with its vast unpreventable vastness and its bleak naked non-furriness that instilled a feeling of absolute horror in anyone who happened to look upon it, except the one that ruled them all, of course.
Our friend suspected, they had some kind of a deal. Possibly, involving mice. Quite possible, still, involving rabbits or some other small rodents, the thought of which was so terrifying that he almost forgot to swallow and clenched his teeth on the big one’s tail to which he slapped him with a paw and missed, because a sudden itch forced him to arch his fat body back and nervously but with pleasure scratch in that damned spot until it was gone.
The skinny one decided he's not part of the game anymore and shivered, perhaps thinking he could conveniently slink up the drain pipe, perhaps even have enough strength to grasp at its insides with his claws. He pulled back, puffed his tail and performed an extraordinary number of Weasel War Dance, complete with ten bounces, twenty flips, and then popping on the ground.
Our hero simply looked on, his little black eyes distant, contemplating. Perhaps there was a way out, perhaps the universe wouldn't collapse on itself, not yet. Perhaps the hand of wrath hanging over the edge of the impending doom was, after all, something else, an entirely different species. Perhaps...
The cage door opened and Molly dropped a piece of cooked chicken: "Here, fuzzies, come here. Molly's got a treat for you. Come on, get it. Come on, now!" She smiled her punctured eight-year-old smile, unaware of exactly what she has just interrupted.