Bring The Boys Back Home
Obivously; the mice aren't mine. Neither is Bring The Boys Back Home. Thank Roger Waters for inspiring this. It's not my best; but I bashed it out in about an hour; so go figure.
Three bored mice sat around the battered and broken TV; all that was holding it together was duct tape, and it showed. The picture was terrible; the sound was tinny and all but the lightest adjustments could send it spiralling into a small mushroom cloud of doom. Cautiously flipping the channels; Throttle eventually settled on a late night rebroadcast of a stage spectacular: The Wall; Live In Berlin. The mice had never heard of Pink Floyd; but the spectacular opening was all that was needed to get them hooked.
Considering the TV had only one speaker, and that it was close to falling out; it did very well. The three mice head-banged along to the tunes; utterly loving the hard thumping tunes; but also enjoying the slower numbers too. This concert was significantly different to anything the mice had witnessed before. A giant wall was slowly being built in front of the performers; slowly sealing off the stage. Within the colossal structure was a small room; resembling a bad hotel; also, a giant grotesque interpretation of a mother figure, taking up nine bricks; was hoisted into place during the appropriate song. The second part of the show was more of a question; whether the narrator had been right in erecting such a monstrosity.
Then came the shock of their lives: a perfect row of soldiers lined the wall; all armed with instruments. Most of them had drums; and the sound was breath-taking. All those drums sounded in unison, with precision timing. High above them was a lone figure; and projected on the wall behind them were propaganda posters. The sound built further and further; Throttle scrambled to crank the volume as high as it could go; his bros eyes were fixed to the television. The posters faded out; to show a long list of names of people who had passed on.
Suddenly the lyrics rang out. "Bring the Boys back home!" All three mice were in shock; even Throttle's thought processes crashed dead still as he watched. "Bring the boys back home!" The camera slowly zoomed into the lone figure on the risen section; the projection changing from the names of the fallen, to the title of the song, in bold capital letters; the message striking home to the three hardened soldiers. "Don't leave the children on their own, no! NO!"
All three mice were now crying their eyes out, yet they hadn't moved an inch. The song's anti-war message struck home the hardest; considering all three of them had lost nearly their entire families. Admittedly, Modo hadn't lost as much as Throttle and Vinnie; but the pain was still raw in their memories. The camera slowly zoomed out; revealing the entire length of the wall; the message; despite remaining on the wall; in all its glory, was breath-taking.
The song repeated itself; all three mice mouthing the lyrics as tears cascaded down their muzzles; the experiences of the catastrophic war they had been fighting flashing before their eyes. They unconsciously shuffled together; their tails winding around their waists; just so they knew someone was looking out for each other. The scene on the background changed again; from the gritty, hard-hitting writing to the most disturbing and haunting image of all.
A field of white crosses. All three mice softly whimpered in their throats as their minds imagined the names of their loved ones carved into them as the camera changed to the man running the show. A sorrowful grin spread over his face, as though he knew his message was penetrating the hearts of millions who were watching it. "Bring the boys back home!" The song ended with a thunderous crash of the cymbals; the snare line continuing until it was lost in a blur of sound; then with a click; the television died.
All three mice held each other close in the dark scoreboard; shaking with sorrow and repressed memories. They wanted to bring the boys back home... so they weren't alone anymore.