“I said, scratch, scratch, motherf***er”
So if you read Mouseshank Redemption, and heavily judged my sensibilities, then boy-oh-boy you’re definitely not going to like what I did after I realized the mouse wasn’t dead:I left the house.
That’s right, baby. I left Mousey in the closet. Trapped in the closet like that R Kelly song; equally dramatic but much more plausible.
In my defense (I feel like I say this a lot), I had already committed to plans that did not include dealing with what I thought would be a dead mouse in my closet, but was a actually an injured, resentful and bloodthirsty mouse in my closet.
So I left, okay?! I. LEFT.
But not before conferring with my dad, The Expert, who agreed it was best to:
TWELVE HOURS LATER.
Meanwhile, inside the closet…
…..We opened up the closet, and by we I mean my dad while I watched from a safe distance away. I noticed a baseball bat sitting on my bed; it would seem that my dad was ready for a fight.
He opened up the closet and surveyed the scene. The mousetraps were still there as were the tampons, but they were scattered. SCATTERED!
One thing was missing though…the mouse
It had disappeared.