The Murder of Mickey Mouse

Disclaimer: in case you think that this strange story is a product of dislike toward Disney, I can assure you that this is not the case. I, in fact, love Disney and simply enjoy taking the things I like and completely destroying all of their innocent qualities.

Mickey Mouse was dead.

Lying on the floor, arms splayed out, head lolling to the side, he was dead, all right. And it looked like he had been shot in the temple— dried blood stuck to the fur around his lifeless round head, as well as onto the hard wood kitchen floor.

The murder could have been blamed on the house cat if it weren't for this small detail, but of course life just had to make this case ten times harder for the detectives... via bullet.

Minnie, his dear wife, was crying upstairs in her bedroom, which was overly saturated with pink. It had been an hour since Mickey had been found dead, and Minnie still sobbed dramatically. Much to the poor inspectors' shame, her desperate mourning had actually become a large annoyance to the hardworking individuals, and they had to wear earphones to block out her grieving sounds.

This went on for hours— inspectors inspecting, Minnie crying, and Mickey enjoying Disneyland in whatever afterlife he believed in. Really, nothing else went on unless one could take into account the crowds and riots outside Mickey's house, all upset about the death of their beloved idol and filled with vengeance.

A few rioters had already been run over by cars, and one especially unfortunate man was scooped up by a bulldozer and catapulted 50 feet into the air. But that isn't very important.

What was important at that particular point in time was the investigation. All of Mickey's closest friends— Donald Duck, Pluto, Goofy and Daisy Duck had been gathered at the police station for questioning.

"So," A large man in a blue officer's uniform asked Donald, "Do you know anything about the murder?"

To this, Donald let out many angry quacks, which, if one listened closely, could be translated to, "No, I do not. But if I ever catch who killed Mickey, I swear I'll beat the sh*t out of them!" He pounded his feathery fist against the palm of his other hand, as if to demonstrate what he was going to do to the murderer.

The officer nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Duck. Now, Goofy, do you happen to know anything about the murder?"

"Nope!" Goofy hiccuped. He scratched his chin, rubbed his neck and pointed his puppy eyes upward toward the sky, "I have no clue!"

"Thank you," said the officer, and moved one step over to stand in front of Pluto, who was sleeping— very loudly, mind you— at his feet.

"Pluto, do you know anything about Mickey Mouse's murder?

The yellow dog opened his eyes slowly, eyelids drooping with tiredness as he stared up at the officer. He then let his head fall back on the ground with a small *thump*, and dozed off again. The others stared at him, astonished.

"He's only a dog," Daisy Duck pointed out. "He can't help that he doesn't know what's going on."

"What about you, Mrs. Duck?" questioned the officer, "Do you know anything about the murder?"

And now, since the author is much too busy to write the interrogation of anyone else, we hereby skip to the very last interrogation, the interrogation of Pete the Cat, whom of which should have been the first to have been questioned all along, as he was the arch enemy of Mickey Mouse.