Two men, Chef Gareth Blackstock and Everton Stonehead stand in the middle of a well used and even more well stocked kitchen. As usual Chef is outraged and Everton, more often than not the focus of this rage, is staring down defensively while he get's bawled out.

"I'm sorry, Chef. I told you I was trying to help and you told me to do something."

"Yes Everton. Something. And when I tell someone like you to do "something" there is a very limited number of somethings allotted to you. "

"Chef, I..."

"For instance! Someone of your skill set could check underneath the table for bits of fallen produce! Or perhaps go into the alley and reorganize the dustbins and not just those of our restaurant Everton, but those of the adjoining shops because we maintain a good neighbor policy here; don't we Everton?"


"Or maybe you could just go into the lavatory, stare deeply into the mirror and try to use whatever feeble faculties are available to you and try desperately to figure out at what point your mother and father went wrong."

Blackstock points to the huge crate sitting on the floor between them and waives a bill of sale in front of Everton's face. The crate is open and filled with cheese. Bright orange cheese. With holes like swiss. A kind of cheese that doesn't typically exist outside of a cartoon.

"What you do NOT do is take the liberty to try and order food for the restaurant. Food that on a later date actual people will be expected to actually eat. And if, and if by the slightest chance of an earth-shaking, thick-headed, short-sighted mistake someone actually left you alone with the papers necessary to order food it wouldn't be cheese, Everton. Something that is so proudly, so time honored, so intensely British as cheese would not be left to the "judgement" of a bumbling, mouth breathing manchild such as yourself. And when ordering this cheese you would not order it from the Caribbean, a place not at all known for cheese or in fact anything remotely consumable. And it would not be simply called "special cheese" because you think the name is amusing."

"Stock... Chef I didn't think it was funny, I thought it sounded a bit posh. You know, quality."

"Quality cheese, Everton, does not come in a crate from which I just saw with my own eyes, three giant rats run."

"Them weren't rats Chef, they was just little mice."

"Oh! I humbly apologize Everton! They were just mice? Then please call them back and invite them to take up residence in our humble kitchen. Perhaps we can fix them a little something! Tell them to bring the family! Any top kitchen worth anything would be happy to have filthy disease-ridden vermin crawling across the food!"

"As you have spent about an eighth of our entire food budget on this blunder; we, meaning me, are going to have to figure something out before Janice finds out what I have allowed you to do. Now we are going to attempt to eat this so called cheese now. And you had better wish with every fiber of your pathetic being that it is of at least a high enough quality that its taste and texture will vanish upon being introduced to legitimate, fit for human consumption ingredients. If we can bury this somewhere within the glorious depths of one of my masterpiece recipes you might come out of this still breathing and Janice... is standing right behind me; isn't she?"

"Yes Chef."

He turns to face the beautiful, intelligent and at the moment extremely intimidating woman standing behind him. His wife. The love of his life and right now, a threat to his very existence.

"Oh yes Gareth. I'm just quietly considering the most painful way to end you."

"Listen Janice I can exp..."

Her calm expression instantly vanishes, replaced by the eruption of fury that was hiding beneath it.

"I have told you time and again that this place is in trouble. We have to reign in the spending. I should have made it clear that by reign in I didn't mean 'make it rain.' How, under your watch, do you account for $325 pounds spent on cheese?"

"Janice please, this can be salvaged. Everton and I are just about to try it and..."

"We will ALL three try it Gareth. And if this isn't the most delicious thing to ever cross my lips. If this isn't the single thing needed to put this on the map and save us from financial ruin, I will murder you both. Immediately. I promise. I will murder you probably through sheer force of will."

Chef expertly slices away portions of the cheese and they all take one. Looking at each other as if participating in a dare, then simultaneously eat. Their expression of dread are immediately replaced with that of confusion.

"Everton" Chef said, "this is not the most horrible excuse for cheese I have ever eaten."

"Yes Chef"

"Oh and one more thing Everton... You appear to be turning into a doll... and ah yes, we are shrinking."

"We are Chef."

"Ah Chef? There's a big rastafarian biker mouse puppet running away with your wife on his shoulder."

Chef turns in time to see a large round rat with a black bandana, adorable black leather jacket and Janice tossed over his shoulder like a rag doll.

Chef began to pursue them but tripped, falling face first and looking up helpless as the distant grew. Janice looked to her husband.



"Gareth Blackstock, after you rescue me, I'm going to KILL you!"

"Janice!" Blackstock said staring in disbelief then looking around even disbeliefier!



"Everton! Janice! Giant Rat took Janice...cartoon rat we ah...we what are we gonna do?" Chef grabs Everton by the shoulders. "A GIANT RAT, EVERTON!"

"Well actually Stock. Chef... it's not giant. We just got shrunk and all, yeah?"


"Wha gwaan, mi odd lookin' breddas!?"

Chef and Everton both frozen in a very familiar pre-Everton strangulation pose; both slowly turn to the source of the new voice. Standing in front of them was a huge mouse in a white tee shirt, gold chain and a dreadlock hat. They stare in stunned silence as the monstrosity continues to speak.

"So dat bad dood don bin taken your likkle wife away. But don't be worry! Rastamouse gonna save the day. So before ya get stress and ting and 'ave a heart attack. Mi got a crucial plan. Wi gonna get her back!"

They stare for a beat before they both erupt in a terrified, high-pitched scream that echoed for miles.

Some time later after both men have calmed down and became as comfortable as anybody can that they're talking to an anthropomorphic mouse puppet; they sit with the rastafarian mouse, now joined by two others; a female with a pink bow on her head and a chubbier mouse with a backwards baseball cap, trying to figure out the situation.

"Okay so my beautiful wife has been kidnapped by a renegade, criminal mouse that you and your partners have been in the middle of a police operation to apprehend?"

"Nah bredda! Wi not da police. Wi be a wicked band!'

"A wicked band of what?"

"A wicked band of reggae riddims! Wi play dem hot tunes and den wi be solving crimes on da spare times"

"So you help local law enforcement on your island of uh..."

"Mouseteego Bay, bredda! And no wi pretty much da only law enforcement around. President Wensleydale don tell us about a bad ting den we go make dat bad ting good! We pretty much da whole Mouseteego Bay government; Da president and our reggae band... actually now dat me tink about it dat does seem a bit odd... But what matter at dis moment is we gotta get your wife back and we gotta stopped him teefin of wives and ting."

Chef stares at the mouse in confusion then shakes his head as if to clear it.

"I'm sorry, you don't appear to be speaking English but I did catch in there somewhere that we're going to get my wife back and that is literally all I care about at this moment, so let's follow them and catch that toerag!"

"Nah bredda, dat not how dis work. We not gon follow dem. We gotta follow da clues! But first, a little jammin'."

Suddenly the three mice are holding two dimensional instruments and playing a generic, repetitive reggae tune.

"What the hell are you doing? We have to get my wife!"

"It's all cool, man! Ya gotta feel dese vibes and take it easy! Just wait for it"

"WAIT? Wait for what? We..."

Suddenly as if by magic a small hand-held radio (also two-dimensional) appears on the floor in front of the band. It begins to shake and a booming voice immites.

"Come in. Come in. This is President Wensleydale. Do you read me? Listen up you tree. The guys who you're with that got shrunk today. One of the guy's wife was taken away. Dat biker mouse TwoWheels him needs to be caught. Bring dat mouse to justice, I'll like that a lot."

Suddenly the mice jumped into action putting down their instruments and putting on their rollerskates.

"Allright Easy Crew sounds like we got a mystery!"

Chef, unable to take the nonsense anymore, flew into a rage.

"What? We already knew there was a mystery! We SAW IT HAPPEN! That radio just told us everything we just saw happen! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

"Dis da way it works," Rastamouse answered. "First Wensleydale interrupts our jammin' session. Den he tell us bout dem mystery. Den we go solve it. Usually in ten minutes. Now mi got no more time ta argue wit ya we gotta tink proppa bout dis mystery. Da way I see it wi got options. First we gotta figure out who it is been stealing dat stuff and your wife and ting"

"We know who-"

"It could either be the enormous chef Bandulu... him a chef too, make da most irie cheese pie ya ever tase!"

"It could be Natty Kas; female fashion designer make dem wicked new treads!"

"It wasn't a female mouse, it w-"

"It could be that new mouse dat drove to town on dat big motorbike been pushin' other mice 'round and causin' dat trouble..."

"I've got it! We gotta go talk to Bagga T, Gangsta Rappa and Orphan caretaker. Him a great mouse! Wi know him for years. You gonna love him! Alright Easy Crew... and strange deformed creatures... we got a mystery to solve. Let's go make a bad ting good!"