The Year of the Mouse

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“Mess not with the Mouse.”

“Mess not with the Mouse? We fly you to California business class and install you in a luxurious hotel in Anaheim and when you are summoned to give an account of the situation, you spout degenerate Taoist crypticisms?”

Xian Bai managed to resist the impulse to tug at the tight collar of his dress shirt, so uncomfortable after two weeks in Southern California, where even high level executives felt free to attend meetings in casual attire.

“This is not a Taoist epigram,” he explained. “It is a precept common in high American corporate circles, where it is thought highly unwise to arouse the ire of the Disney Corporation.”

Had the Deputy Minister for Overseas Cultural Relations been a Long Nose, his pale white skin would no doubt have turned crimson with rage. Despite the handicap of the lack of this Caucasian ability, he managed to make his displeasure clear enough by banging his hand on the desk with sufficient force to rattle the tea service.

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