You know what Tom thinks?
He thinks that Jerry is just a shitheaded little mouse.
An obnoxious rodent to society, and he’s weaseled his way into sharing the same space and oxygen as him.
He’s beside himself over this.
He tosses and turns, losing sleep, while the thought of his existence marinates in his head.
Something makes him think that Jerry enjoys this – but the joy isn’t platonic.
It’s an irrational pleasure from simply ruining Tom’s day over and over again and not receiving any hard-boiled feedback in return.
Tom is sick of this circus, and wants nothing more than to turn that slippery bastard into a succulent afternoon meal.
After all, This is the cat’s yard and an inferior species is not welcomed. With a bigger mouth, a sharper set of nails, and an uncontested appetite, he would vanquish this critter forevermore.
Damn, what a crock that turned out to be, right Lukey boy?
Hopelessly devoted to the cause, Tom would come to realize that he was dealing with the goddamn Reed Richards of mice.
It didn’t matter what the cat did, or how long he spent plotting his brilliant vengeance, because Jerry was always a couple steps ahead in the game. Tom may have finished the blueprints to the RPG that he was going to fire directly at Jerry – but Jerry already had a prototype slung on his shoulders with its reticle placed between Tom’s eyes.
This drove him mad – to the point at which desperation led him into obvious fires that he would have otherwise avoided – through glaring cracks that he would nimbly maneuver around in traditional circumstances.
But like Jerry, there ain’t nothing traditional about me.
Jerry never denied being a weasel. Shit, he never denied setting shop in a yard that was supposedly claimed. Instead, he gradually turned that yard into his own. And in doing so, he baffled the big shots by deflecting and one-upping everything they brought to the table.
One thing that I’m sure you’ve begun to realize, Luke, is that I’m fearless.
I want you hopelessly devoted in taking me out of the equation, desperate to find a way to get me out of your life, because there ain’t nothing more irrationally pleasurable to me than watching you get more and more frustrated over the fact that you’re just not in my league.
Sure, you’ve got the accolades and the gold and the championships, but fuck all of that when each swipe of yours comes back without results, ya’dig?
The problem, Luke, is that you came up on me assuming that you already knew what you were dealing with.
A shithead.
And you thought that this was going to be a cakewalk on easy street. You would take care of this shitheaded little rodent while your boys took their spoonfed assignment of getting rid of my boys and that’d be all she wrote.
Another successful day in the books for The Hollywood Icon, right?
Wrong, motherfucker.
But like Tommy the Cat, you just keep pressing on in hopes of getting that hard-boiled feedback.
So keep coming for the shitheaded rodent, baby.
I think you now know how much I just adore ruining your day.