Bartholomew the snail wasn’t your average garden-variety gastropod. Oh no, Bartholomew harbored a deep-seated resentment towards the neighborhood squirrels, particularly a particularly plump one named Nutsy. Nutsy, with his bushy tail and boundless energy, had made a habit of using Bartholomew’s carefully constructed slime trails as personal speedways, leaving Bartholomew stranded and humiliated.
“This ends today,” Bartholomew muttered, his tiny eye glinting with determination. He’d spent weeks scavenging discarded soda bottle caps and meticulously attaching them to his shell, creating a bizarre, miniature contraption.
“What in the world are you doing, Bartholomew?” chirped a passing ladybug named Dot.
“Revenge,” Bartholomew hissed, his voice barely audible. “Turbocharged revenge!” He pointed a tiny, modified twig at his contraption. “This, my dear Dot, is my rocket-powered shell.”
Dot, initially skeptical, watched as Bartholomew activated his contraption – a tiny, sputtering engine powered by fermented grape juice. It was less “rocket-powered” and more “mildly propelled.”
Bartholomew, with a mighty heave, launched himself towards Nutsy, who was busily burying an acorn. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then died. Bartholomew’s “rocket” slowed to a crawl, then a stop. He slid pathetically to a halt just a few inches from Nutsy’s tail.
Nutsy, unimpressed, merely flicked Bartholomew’s shell with his tail. “Is that the best you got, slowpoke?” he chuckled.
Bartholomew, defeated but undeterred, responded with surprising dignity: “I underestimated the power of gravity, but I overestimated the amount of grape juice I could acquire. Next time, I’m going with rocket fuel.” And then, he added with a sly smile, “And a slightly longer track.”
