I've been quiet about this for fear of repercussions but it's time I come out. This is an exchange between me and my grandpa that led to the events I'm currently facing:
“I know that rat... My god...” my Grandfather said
“What are you talking about Grandpa? That’s just Stuart Little.”
“Exactly” He said walking back out of the room, in a shaky voice.
At the time I was watching Stuart Little on DVD, he walked in, and his demeanor changed from that day forward. He became suspicious, reserved, everyone noticed, but he insisted it was nothing. He moved into a smaller house, with a cellar which was very odd in south Texas. If I ever came to visit he would never let me go into the cellar, which he kept locked. It wasn’t until recently I understood why.
My Grandpa had Liver disease, and passed away last Thursday at the age of 78. My family was with him in his deathbed, but only I was with him when he spoke his last words.
“Come closer... I need to tell you something...” He struggled to say, in between gasping breaths.
“What is it Grandpa?” I did as he instructed.
He held out an arthritic hand grasping a small key. “The others wouldn’t believe me, but you have to, you need to know the truth.”
I grabbed the key slowly as his hand fell onto the bed at the same rate, “Trust me...” He mustered to say, his final breath obscured by a loud BEEEEEEEEEP!
My Parents and brother rushed into the small room all asking me questions and tearing up, but I knew what I had to do. I didn’t tell them what happened, but after we came home from the hospital I drove myself to his house.
His house was dilapidated, his lawn overgrown, he had been bedridden for the last month, and his residence showed it. I inspected the key, held by the thumb and forefinger, it looked old. It couldn’t have been for the front door, and either way it was left unlocked. I was puzzled what could this key be for? A wardrobe? A chest-of-drawers? I paced around the house racking my brain, until the tarnished faux-gold knob of the cellar door caught my eye. I inserted the key into the keyhole, it fit. I turned the key gently and the door opened.
I walked down the flight of stairs, rounded the corner and I finally saw it, what he was keeping from me all these years.
It was a wall sized cork board covered in pictures of Stuart Little, a world map, financial information, all connected with red string. A gun safe in the corner had 3-4 different firearms in it, and on a table near it rested what must have been at least 2,000 rounds of assorted ammunition.
“Jesus Christ...” I exclaimed to myself.
I slowly walked to the table his creation was suspended above to find a note addressed to me.
“To Michael-
I know I must seem like a nut-Job, and I can’t blame you, but this is what you need to know:
Me and that rat Stuart Little have history. Back in Vietnam, I came face to face with him more than once. He didn’t fight for the Vietcong, or the US, no, he emerged from the bushes, somehow holding an M60 and mowed down men, and women, Marines and ‘Congs alike. He fought for nothing except his insatiable bloodlust. We stayed awake at night, fearing that Rat. Finally without higher up approval, me and some comrades hatched a plan to storm wherever he was set up and kill him.
We pinpointed where we thought he was hiding and one night, Burns our Machine gunner, me, and Slim, grabbed our guns and set out for his hideout. By the time we found it, it was early light.
It was a bamboo shed, sat in the middle of a rice paddy. I pulled out a soda bottle full of gasoline and stuffed with a rag. The throw the lit Molotov at the hut and watched it burn to the ground. We thought we had won, until the rat emerged from the hut with his dreaded M60 and opened fire. We had no cover. I Burns took 3 shots to the torso and dropped in the middle of the paddy, Slim took a shot to the head and his blood spattered all over me, I took cover, somehow unscathed, in a mud rut. I thought I was safe, until a clang on the head left me unconscious.
I woke up chained to a tree in a clearing, Stuart emerged from behind a bush, with a manic grin across his face. He was holding a needle bigger than himself.
“I won’t kill you...” He said laughing, “that’s your own Job”
He stabbed the needle into my neck, and injected me with all of it. The substance in the needle was some kind of hallucinogen. He unchained me, and I aimlessly wandered the Jungle for two days, until I came down. After a week of being in the Vietnam wilderness I finally found base camp, and was rushed to the military hospital, before being honorably discharged.
I thought he stayed in Vietnam, until 15 years ago, when I saw him on TV, and I swore I would get my revenge.
I write this now, suffering to the fullest extent of my incredibly rare liver disease, that I contribute fully to Stuart Little’s injection.
I’m asking you, once I kick the bucket, to carry on my legacy. Of killing that Rat- mother .
Trust me- Grandpa.”
I put down the letter. It all made sense now, I rushed out of the house after grabbing a handgun. As soon as I got home I did more research and found r/Stuartlittlefacts and a Facebook page about him. I didn’t tell anyone else, my friends or family about Stuarts wrong-doings. I know they wouldn’t believe me.
But things got out of hand fast, Little knows about me.
I planned to come back to the house the next day, but it was burned down due to an “electrical fire”, after that my mother, father, and brother fell ill with an unknown illness. My Fiancé wasn’t returning any of my calls or texts, so I went to his house, there, he showed me well doctored pictures of me participating in an orgy with multiple transvestites, he told me he was emailed them anonymously. He has since broken up with me.
And finally I came home to my apartment to find a letter, pinned to my door with a knife. The note said:
“Burn in hell
-Stuart”
If my grandfather’s note, and the things I found online weren’t enough, I now know first hand of the pure evil of Stuart Little. In 3 short days he has left my life in ruins, and I must fight for myself, and continue my grandfathers legacy. I will make you proud Grandpa, and to Stuart Little: You’ve forgotten something important Stuart, He who fights the fiercest, is he who has nothing left to lose.
I’m coming for you Stuart, and I will have your puny throat in my hands, if it kills me.
