A Squirrel's POV

A squirrel bounds from his perch in an oak tree and jumps onto a power line. He clutches an acorn in each front paw, oblivious to the fact that he is precariously balancing well over twenty feet in the air.

Beneath him, a backyard party is underway. The backyard belongs to that of Stephen Thornhill. It is one of several yards on the Thornhill compound that could be labeled with the description of 'back.'  This one happens to be the largest and possesses the most intricate landscaping. The hedgerows are neatly arranged in a row. The shrubbery is similarly arranged. No one can tell from their viewpoint on the ground, but the landscaping forms satanic symbols that would frighten most Christians.

Inside, beyond the squirrel's view, is Mother Thornhill. She was brought in to make her delicious and prize winning potato salad. Actually, she is making nothing. She is much too elderly to stand up for a time longer than a couple minutes.  She grabs her cane tightly with her left hand, and points with her right.  All the while barking orders of ingredients and their measurements to a cook, who mixes them with a large wooden spoon inside an even larger bowl.

Our squirrel, sloppy and wasteful, drops an acorn while he eats another. Nobody knows this but you and I - but the dropped acorn germinates in the spring, and many years later becomes a magnificent oak. Young lovers seek out the Oak and like to sit under its thick branches.

The squirrel's eyes dart to the left. And back again to the right. He watches the party unfold and his eyes settle on a group of men.

A half-dozen men are gathered in a semi-circle. Each one is smoking a cigar or a pipe and holding a drink. Most of the guests are drinking vodka based drinks. Thornhill drinks brandy and is the only one holding a brandy glass. He swirls it around the inside of the glass while he fields compliments about the landscaping, and is asked to forward them to the gardener. They discuss what to do with their millions. Thornhill says something about the ascendant Japenese Yen, or something about Gold, or something else about a company, Amalgamated something or another.

The squirrel, never landing in one place very long, darts from the power line into another tree, and across two lanes of blacktop. Just at that moment a young man – Krebs – sole heir to the Krebs estate and its billions and billions, is late for a party and is coming around the corner with his girlfriend, Contessa, in his Porsche Cayman S.

Contessa passes him a joint.  He hits it. At that moment he sees the squirrel. But it's too late. He hits it.  The squirrel's brains squish out all over the Porsches' left-front wheel well.

“What the fuck!” Krebs exclaims.