tales of terror

October 21, 2010

(should I have called it 'tails of terror'? I thought that was over the line, frankly, but it is nearly halloween.)

(this is part three of the story, if you need them, start with part one and part two.)

Oh, mouse two three and four, you wily bastards. Wily, but obviously not wily enough to have escaped a sudden and dramatic death via snapper-trapper. VICTORY, I HAZ IT! While I regretted that it had to go that way I felt lighter than I had in weeks, buoyed by our relative lack of furry visitors. I cleaned out the cabinets, yet again, and we set the traps, yet again, waiting to see who else this freaking jim-jam had waiting for us. But I felt good, I felt confident. Things were moving in the right direction.  Uncle Horace, is that you?

Over the next few days we caught a big fat zero mice. However, we were also running out of peanut butter. That tiny crafty little asshole was licking the traps clean and, by the power of grayskull, not tripping the traps. Jon cranked the mechanics 180° to BADASS sensitivity and loaded them up with the goods. Those suckers would go off at the blowing of a nose hair, which Jon unfortunately found out via hand several times.

Over the next few mornings we discovered that he wasn't just an asshole– he was a smart asshole. He was lifting the bait piece with his nose to make it less sensitive. Rasputin, the mouse that wouldn't die, was completely outsmarting us. It's almost as if he didn't want to throw himself into the wall of complete oblivion, imagine!

"I think we need a different kind of trap." I mused, as Jon angrily applied peanut butter to the stupid thing for the fiftieth time.

"At the very least he will get so fat that he won't be able to run away anymore and we can just pick him up."

At the store that week it was back to the sector of death to look at further modes of mouse-destruction. Spin traps. Truly, they seem like they make a simple process more complicated than it needs to be. The mouse goes into this little plastic cave and then somehow it magically spins around and traps him inside, alerting you on the top of the trap with "set" or "mouse!" but what the hell people, at that point I was willing to try it.

That night the spin traps were set, along with our now familiar old neck-snappers, and the waiting began. Rasputin, thy death be quick.

It would be a long wait.

Because that crap doesn't work.

A few mouse-catching-less nights later we were once again in the living room, watching movies from the movie closet challenge. Mid-movie, I heard... a noise. A metallic kind of noise, rather like a pipe moving. I brushed it off, because our house is beyond ancient and yes, it makes noises. Noisy, creaky noises. It's nothing out of the ordinary. A minute or two later, I heard it again, echoing around in the kitchen.

This time Jon turned and looked at me, "Did you hear that?"

"Uh, yeah. And I heard it a few minutes ago. I was ignoring it."

Normally this would be the point where I would put my fingers in my ears and yell LALALALALA, but we are obsessed with watching Ghosthunters and my curiosity got the best of me. What is it they always teach you? Never run from the weird noise; go and see what's making it, right? We got up off the couch and tag-teamed our way into the kitchen. Jon flipped on the light–

and fuck if Rasputin's adorable furry self wasn't sitting on top of our radiator, hopping around on my pizza pan IN THE FLESH. In the flesh people, it was like seeing a celebrity. If john black from days of our lives hadn't been at the soccer field with his kids, he wouldn't have looked so haggard. Shit was freaking adorable. Also, totally infuriating. DON'T POKE THE BEAR, MOUSE, DON'T POKE THE BEAR.

We began that whole rigamaroo again with the tupperware and the flashlight. I armed us with several mixing bowls and Jon got the flashlight while our hoose-moose hid underneath the pan at the top of the radiator. He led us on a merry chase, down to the ground, behind the shoe bench, into the closet, under the fridge, when finally... he disappeared like a phantom into the night.

I shrugged my shoulders, set the bowl down, and went back into the living room.

Because at this point, really? REALLY!? You're going DOWN, rasputin mouse, if it's the last thing I do. I may not chase you around the room with williams sonoma cookware anymore but you are going to DIE, DIE DIE DIE DIE. He had pushed me over the edge from "scared Jamie" to, "super pissed gunna kill you with a fork Jamie."

It was in that mindset I made a decision I will probably always regret.

That Sunday I went to the grocery by myself and returned to the aisle of annihilation. I picked up the glue traps and put them in the cart. I drove home and I put them around rasputin mouse's favorite hangouts.

Desperate times, desperate measures, I told myself.

The next morning was a Monday. In typical Monday fashion I was running ten minutes late and zipping all over the house in the dark packing my bag, packing Jude's bag, the pump, the keys, our coats. Zip zip zip! On a whim, I opened a drawer to check on one of the traps, which was hilariously placed next to one of those completely useless spin-doodads.

{stop reading. really. just stop. don't do it.}

It was still dark outside and that particular drawer sits in a shadow. I could see... something... looking not right. The surface of the previously shiny glue wasn't so shiny, but I couldn't really make out what was going on. I thought ok, well... that's good right? Maybe we got one. Maybe he just ran across it and disturbed the surface. I closed the drawer. Had rasputin mouse faced down his final thrill?

I got the flashlight. I opened the drawer.

There was not one mouse. There were THREE mice, bundled together like a tiny flopping flailing furry glue burrito. Three peas in a pod, OF DEATH, and yet not death. Squirming, worming, fuzzy...

I ran into the living room, and yelled EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (breath) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, eeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! All while flailing my arm like some kind of horrible distressed bird caught in mid-flight by a lazer beam. (Always spell lazer with a z. Always)

There have never been so many nightmare ponies crawling over my skin with their dancey feet. STOP TAPDANCING, PONIES, YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW. The horror, my eyes, they burn.

...And I closed the drawer and went to work.

to be continued...
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