It was the Garden of Eden recreated, he thought to himself as he sniffed pridefully. While he remained trapped in his fantasy, he had failed to notice the presence of a newcomer, rather three newcomers. There were three of them, who had come from the city and followed his trail as he strutted through his estate. Their names were Fatty, Larry, and Bod. These were ill watchers, calmly observing Schmoe follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. As they malevolently watched him from the shadows of the garden, they began quietly whispering to one another.
“Just what does he think he’s doing?” Larry haughtily whispered.
“Can’t you tell you fool?” “He’s exactly like the snobs before him.” Fatty remarked
The trio was shushed by Joe Schmoe suddenly turning, for he had become slightly anxious at the thought of being caught. He slowly turned around, and the three resumed their conversation.
“I reckon we can get some good loot off of this one.” Fatty chuckled.
“I doubt it.” Bod replied. “He looks like the kind of loser whose belly went to a party his legs weren’t invited to.”
Unfortunately for the trio, Larry had forgotten where they were, and he made an air horn sound, and loudly exclaimed,
“Roasted!”
Upon hearing this, Joe Schmoe spun around to face the three bristling prairie dogs. Their teeth were bared and they had hints of nervous smiles on their lips. Fatty stood up and gave Larry a sharp cuff on the back of the head and exclaimed,
“You gave us away fool!”
Joe Schmoe remained silent, calculating the odds of victory. Since he was young, his arrogant family had taught him several annoying verses, such as, “To win the fight, time it right.” It was in times like these that they proved useful, for he had successfully analyzed the situation and backed into his escape exit. The trio of prairie dogs had decided to do away with him, and they backed him towards the corner.
“You’re not going anywhere soon fatso.” Fatty said ironically.
“Why yes, I am.” Schmoe replied curtly.
It was then and there that Joe Schmoe made his move, and with the tables turned to his side, he sprang backwards into the undergrowth and triggered the wire that released several large pesticide bombs. He fell into empty space and watched as a volley of pesticide was thrown onto his attackers like water dousing wood smoke. When he had first built his hideout, he had created a means of escape, and it was extravagant like anything else he had done before. He had well anticipated the day that he would be discovered, however he did not expect it to come so soon. He watched the purple cloud of toxic poison roll across his beautiful garden with a melancholy and sullen expression. Hours upon hours of work had been wasted, and as he braced himself for impact with the ground, he heaved a great sigh. He plummeted into the dirt with a great thud, and lay there for several minutes, contemplating. Realizing the magnitude of his actions, he began planning what had to be done. As he collected his thoughts, he rose up from the ground and patted off a large cloud of dust from his fine clothes, now ravaged and torn. He straightened his hat, and moved out from the spot where he had fallen.

As he neared a cleared path through the undergrowth, he heard voices and quickly hid in the shadows. There were two prairie dogs talking, and they sounded anxious.
“That purple cloud up there looks mighty like the stuff humans try to kill us with.”
“Might as well go up and investigate. I hear we’re paid for our time by the regime, and maybe that new rich fellow living up there will give us some money too,” The other replied.
As he listened intently, he accidently broke a branch under his paw.
The larger one of the two turned around to look at him and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He was the general chief of the town and he knew a troublemaker when he saw one, rather, heard one. He also knew that anyone near the area of the pesticides might be potential suspects, and as he was instructed by the regime, the more the merrier. Joe lay back in the undergrowth, praying. His blood ran cold, and began breathing as quietly as possible.
A minute passed in silence, in which the sheriff did not shift his gaze from the bush, and Joe Schmoe began to profusely sweat.
Annoyed, his companion yelled “Get going or we’re not going to get to the scene in time!”
The sheriff however disregarded this and waved him off. Never once had he not trusted his senses, and he never regretted it, for it had made him rich.
Seeing his attempts at reasoning haughtily spurned, the other yelled angrily and went alone. The sheriff was not to be underestimated, for he had caught a great many number of the slyest and worst criminal masterminds. He began his usual tactic, drawing out a stout club, then narrowing his eyes even further until they were the smallest of slits, and then putting on a comical grin. He looked like a piggish cheshire cat with the body of a prairie dog. Joe Schmoe could not suppress a grin, and he spluttered, for he was trying his best to contain his laughter. If not for the years of self control that his cousins had beaten into him, Joe Schmoe would have met his end then and there, Seeing that this had not worked, the sheriff proceeded to his second course of action, and walked away and turned a corner. Had Joe been a commoner, this would have definitely worked, however Joe was a familiar with this trick, and had used it to his advantage many times before. The sheriff whipped around, expecting to see an unsuspecting crook, however found disappointment. Although he was sure that there was someone there, he was confounded for his tactics had not worked. Admitting defeat, he finally followed his friend.
Joe who was sweating profusely, gave a sigh, before realizing his situation. He was now probably responsible for manslaughter and hoarding, the punishment being death. His ancestors had also gone this way, and he shuddered. He began to imagine all the creative tortures the regime would impose upon him. His head was ringing, and he was now sweating more profusely than ever before. Joe was overwhelmed, in a deep pit of self-pity and fear. He would be going, he thought, the exact same way most his family had. He now felt pity for his cousins, and imagined being in their place, lying below the guillotine, stomach churning and watching the great slab of sharp metal close upon his delicate neck. He mused about the feeling of death, and laughed hysterically. Almost bordering insanity, he got the better of himself. Imagining his grandpa lecturing him about how to be a man, he managed to find control. Joe Schmoe was fully aware of the consequences of his actions, and he was determined to not turn up as his cousins had. Besides, he also had something his relatives did not. Pulling out a thin leather notebook from his pocket, he dusted off the cover and recalled how he had found it. He had been cleaning the manor and clearing out the old clutter, and he had dislodged this book from a shelf where it had laid rotting for several decades. It was filled with detailed instructions, passages in the manor, and an extensive survival guide. The author was M. Grebe, and somehow Joe felt he was related despite not sharing a blood connection. He found the main path that led to the entrance of his manor, and moved into sight of his estate. It stood tall and dark, looming ominously above the large hill it had been built upon. The treacherous moat that surrounded it did no better to alleviate his stress, but he continued onwards. He scurried up the path and quickly ran inside, slamming the door and hurriedly bolting it. Dimly lit candles illuminated the dark halls and the eyes of the portraits on the walls seemed to follow him as he rushed past. He could almost swear that they were laughing at him for coming to the same fate as they. Fine furniture was set about the halls and a seemingly infinite red carpet was set on the floor of each hall. As he ran into pitch blackness, he neared a familiar bend and veered sharply to the right, before halting and being carried several feet due to the friction of his maneuver. Below was a grand staircase that widened to a massive hall, with an array of flaming torches inlaid within the farthest wall. There was a single open window from which a gust of freezing air blew and it chilled to the bone. Not easily displaced, he ran down the stairs and approached a single set of armor. He laid his hand on the front of the visor, and felt it’s smooth texture, and moved his hand towards a slight but sure dent on the back. Fumbling through his notes, he flipped to section three, secret passageways.

The passage read,
“To find the escape room, please go to the main hall and find the dented suit of armor. Proceed to locate the third brick slab atop the visor and remove the it, there will lie a button that opens the passage.”
Following the instructions, Joe Schmoe counted three bricks up from the top of the visor. Sure enough, it came loose and exposed a single red button. Pressing the button, there was a great clang of steel against steel, and the entrance of his escape chamber had been revealed. This was the greatest engineering feat of his time, reminiscent of the first time man had put the wheel onto the axle or invented the lightbulb. Joe whistled in awe, for he could not even imagine how this M. Grebe had built such a masterpiece. Joe approached the entrance. There was a long passageway lined with suits of rusting armor that had lost it’s sheen. There was no lighting except for a dim light shining through the stained glass above the corridor, and Joe approached tentatively for he did not know what monstrosities had accumulated during the period that this chamber had not been occupied. As he approached the blackness of a doorway, he lit a small candle, and saw what appeared to be a spiral staircase. As he walked down, the flimsy boards threatened to collapse under his weight, however they somehow held. As he neared the bottom of the staircase, he saw a thin lever. Mistaking it for a hand rest, he gratefully shifted his weight onto it only to topple to the ground. Mumbling, he noticed a blinding light had illuminated the room from a single epicenter, which hung from the ceiling. It seemed to be contained in a single transparent container, and as he grew used to it’s brightness, he recognized it. He had seen these mystical orbs of light in the courthouses of the regime, from the time when he had to bear witness to his cousins’ trials. He could tell this room had once been magnificent and he noticed golden flecks of paint on the now bare walls. Where there were heaps of rotting wood, he could tell that there had once been fine furniture. There was a musty smell of decay and earth.  At the wall that marked the dead end, there was a single desk, a glowing keypad, and an immense filing cabinet situated next to it. He walked to the desk, and noticed another book, this one similar to the other one he had found. Laced in faded gold, he spotted the name M. Grebe and the Schmoe family crest on the front cover, and felt a surge of excitement. He had developed awe for this unknown prairie dog, who was not of his family yet had occupied the manor briefly yet had founded all of it’s secrets. He opened to the first page of the book, and to his great disappointment, it crumbled under his fingertips. He was in greater distress for the next few pages were all worn away by time. He finally flipped to a legible page, only to see diary entries. At first, he was disappointed, for he had expected a thrilling book of secrets that would give him leverage over the regime, however he became intrigued by what he read.
    Moonsday, May 2, 1337,
I have accomplished the great and noble process of preserving the family wealth in our great storehouse. We shall be the rulers of this land for generations, Forsooth, I have hidden well our belongings and they will not be predator to the heavy taxes and duties imposed by the regime. Today they came haughtily for inspection, and put on great show of examining the floorboards, only to find nothing. I had a great laugh and mocked them as they strutted away, for they did not deign to remain.

Wodensday, May 4, 1337
Today they came back, and I laughed at them again. This time however, I noticed a subtle difference. They told me that I had better watch my tongue, and confidently exclaimed they had gotten a lead. I laughed at them and told them to be gone, however I could not refrain from expressing a hint of worry. I fear that they have found the storehouse,

    Thorsday, May 5, 1337
The regime’s army surrounded the estate today. A great fat prairie dog on horseback came and announced that I was now under house arrest. I felt sick to the stomach, for they surely might have a true lead. I remained vigilant however and renounced their claims. I fear that I may be caught, and therefore will construct a vault to wait out the storm.

    Freyasday, May 13, 1337
I have been hidden away for a week, There were scuffles on the estate today between the family guards and the regime, I fear the servants have betrayed me to the reg-

Here the diary entries ended, and there was a great streak of ink as if M. Grebe had stopped before he finished writing the word. Joe wondered what could have possibly intercepted him, and he realized that he was probably attacked mid-sentence. A new wave of anxiety plagued him, Quickly, he began to take all that M. Grebe had left. He scrambled to arrange these supplies, and shoved as many packets of food into his pockets that he could. As he prepared to exit, he heard great shouting and clamor, echoing across the walls. Sound had certain buoyancy here, and someone speaking from a great distance away could be heard as if they were standing next to you, especially if they had a penetrating voice like a dentist’s drill. He could hear the voice of Fatty exclaim,
“Get him!, he can’t be far!”

Not having time to consider how Fatty had survived, he could only hear the clamor, loud and ringing to his delicate ears, and rushed to find an exit. To his great dismay, there were none and he shuddered as the mob outside rammed the walls near him systematically. Pockets of dust were shaken from the ceiling. Heart racing, Joe pulled out M. Grebe’s guide, and found the escape routes section. M. Grebe however, had never finished this section and what Joe Schmoe had actually thought to be detailed passageways were actually just mazes that the former had drawn to amuse himself. Joe Schmoe ran up several flights of stairs to his quarters, still anxiously flipping through the book to find anything of help. From below, there was a great shudder, and the mob roared victoriously. Running into his room with his nose in his book, he slammed the door and bolted the three bolts his cousins had installed several months before. Finally he had found it. As part of the survival guide M. Grebe had written, he had graciously provided a way to escape out of windows. From below, Fatty was furious.
“Split up men! My team will take the upper floors, and you take the lower ones.”
He proceeded by yelling loudly, “Ten shillings and a fine cloak to the one that brings me his head!”
The mob roared in agreement.
Joe Schmoe whipped the sheets off of the bed with newfound strength, and began to tie them together into knots. Below, the sounds of doors being kicked down and closets torn open had settled, and now they were ascending to his quarters. The mob began to kick at his door, which trembled with the stress. Finishing up the final knots, Joe Schmoe observed his rope. He securely fastened it to the bedpost, and threw open the window. He looked down and his stomach churned, there was a fifty feet drop to the ground and a fall into the frigid waters of the moat. Just as he began to recollect his thoughts, the great wooden door broke under the stress of the pounding. The mob burst in, with Fatty at the lead. They brandished torches, axes, and blades.
Fatty smiled, and licked the edge of the blade which glistened in the light of the torches.
“It is time to avenge my friends” Fatty drawled, with a disgusting smirk.
Although longing to wipe that nasty look from his face, Joe Schmoe tried to reason first, for he did not want to risk the great fall.
“Now look here friend, I didn’t mean any of that. It was you who tried to attack me first.” He replied with his earnest expression kicking in.
“I’m terribly sorry for what happened, but it was all self defense. Here, I’ll even give you all of my food.” Joe reluctantly handed all Fatty all of the food he had stuffed in his pocket.
Fatty hesitated, and the mob in the back murmured their assent, before Fatty spun and yelled, “Are all of you mad!?”
“It was he, this aristocratic scum that killed Larry and Bod.”
“It was his disgusting family that punished us all, and he is not in the least bit better!” He finished.
Fatty brandished his sword at Joe, who sprang back.
“I am an avenger, and I will wreak vengeance!” Fatty whispered as he backed Joe towards the wall.
In the split second that Fatty had swung his sword high above his head, ready to descend, Joe sprung out the window with his makeshift rope. Fatty screamed in anguish, and jumped after him.
As they tumbled through the air, Fatty screamed a vow that was lost in the velocity of their drop. Stunned, Clutching the rope tightly with his right hand, Joe pulled out a misformed potato from his pocket with the left that the mob had refused to take. With all of his strength, he threw the potato at Fatty. Fatty, whose intelligence was about as short as his temper, opened his mouth with glee. He swallowed the potato whole before realizing he had dropped his sword and now was on course to fall into the moat.  He fell into the moat with a simple plop, and his head disappeared under the water. Joe Schmoe, now relieved, was nearing the end of the length of his rope. To his horror, the rope was ripped from his grasp and he tumbled through the air, now tumbling on the sheer drop to his doom. Feeling surprisingly calm, he closed his eyes as the inevitable loomed below him. His life flashed before his eyes, as he relived his miserable childhood being harassed by his cousins, his horror at witnessing at their trials, and then the happiness of building his hideout. He relived the last moments of his life, thinking if Fatty, Larry, and Bob had undergone the same process when they met their end. He hit the ground with a sound thud, and lay still for the rest of eternity.

Epilogue:
Joe Schmoe went on to becoming a creative deity with his family centuries later. He had many hosts through the course of the years, teaching them to avoid the mistakes that he had went through in his short lived life, and taught them well on how to avoid greed sapping at their personality. Fatty, Larry, and Bob were reunited and also became creative geniuses, Joe describing their hosts as “rather unfortunate.”