Received Honorable Mention in the 250-word Microfiction Challenge 2023 on NYCMidnight.
Genre: Comedy / Action: Repairing a Car / Word: “Point”
Walton spiked the crescent wrench on the garage floor, then sucked a bruised knuckle. Slamming the Blazer’s hood dislodged the For Sale sign in the back window.
Soft chittering mocked him, along with a swish of a fluffy tail.
He pointed a defiant finger at the tree, muttering, “Not this time, you little bastard.”
The first time Walton’s mechanic unloaded 30 bushels of walnuts from under the hood, Walton had laughed along with him — while secretly apologizing for wasting the squirrel’s stockpile.
The following autumn, it was less amusing. Dousing the engine compartment with citronella and linseed oils only deterred human passengers. Joe harvested 40 bushels of nuts before replacing the fouled transmission. Walton’s colleagues at the animal shelter guffawed at the news.
When the rodent ruined Walton’s radiator the next year, he wrestled with professional ethics. Humane ultrasonic deterrents did little more than rile neighborhood dogs. Live traps sat empty, while his nemesis pushed its annual bushel count over 50.
A week had passed since Four Horsemen Exterminators — bearing an arsenal of chemical weaponry and empty promises — departed in their panel truck on what would be their last commute. The newspaper reported the vehicle’s brake lines had been “gnawed through.”
After slipping the For Sale sign back in place, Walton mounted his new Kawasaki and grinned. The industrious interloper had launched its last invasion. The Blazer would soon be a memory.
Then, as he pulled on the helmet, a cascade of walnuts spilled over his head.