Ultraviolent Rodentia!

I saw the first rodent droppings on the counter in my kitchen the other day. Rodents are foul beasts that you typically find living in sewers and under houses. I had no intention of sharing my home with one. I asked, “How did a mouse get in my house and on my kitchen counter?”

“It must have made it past the snakes in the yard. Perhaps there is a small hole in the foundation. Mice are great climbers. Perhaps he wedged his body up between the stove and the fridge.”

I nodded. “What of the cat? Surely he will catch the mouse in my house.”

“You best buy some traps–knowing that cat.”

I journeyed to the store and found the most vicious of snapping traps. I armed them and carefully set them on the counter baited with cheese. The next morning the traps were all sprung, but there was no mouse.

“Get a pointy stick, and kill the mouse yourself.”

I nodded. I went to the garage and looked for a dowel rod. I got out the sander, set it on the workbench, and proceeded to sharpen the stick to a fine point.

I went on the hunt. I pulled the fridge out from its enclosure and flashed my flashlight back there with the pointy stick in my right. I found an ancient snack cake still in its wrapper, but no mouse. I got down on my knees and opened all the cabinets down there poking around with the flashlight and the stick. I stood up and shrugged. I didn’t really consider myself a mouse hunter.

Then I saw the little monster dart from behind the toaster to the microwave. He was quick!

I pulled the microwave out from the cabinet ever so slowly, so I wouldn’t startle the poor thing. The creature showed off his fangs and hissed at me. I stabbed at it with my stick, but it dodged out of the way and leapt off the kitchen counter only to land behind the fridge on the ancient snack cake. I stepped forward after him and tried to stab at him again while he recovered from his fall. He dodged into a hole in the side of the cabinet below the sink.

“You’ve got to be quicker!”

I growled back, “He’s so fast!”

“You’re faster. You just have to focus!”

I said, “I’m trying!”

Just then the wee creature jumped back out of the hole in the cabinet with something in its hands. I stared in awe as he flipped it back and forth and from left to right. Two sticks of wood or possibly metal attached to each other with a chain: nun-chucks. The little furry rodent had a pair of nun-chucks and was flipping them around like a Chinese Kung-Fu master. I aimed my pointy stick for his heart and thrust it forward.

The mouse dodged out of the way whacking my stick with the nun-chucks at the same time. I felt the vibration from the hit carry all the way from the end of my stick to my hand. Not to be discouraged, I stabbed forward with the stick aiming for his midsection. He dodged to his left and hit my stick twice in quick succession with his tiny little nun-chucks. The vibration growing in the dowel rod was even stronger than the last time. I snarled and lunged forward with the stick again. The mouse hit the point of my stick with the nun-chucks and knocked the point off target.

I wanted to scream, “Bloody murder!” yet I stopped to collect my thoughts instead. One, I thought to myself, mice shouldn’t be allowed to have nun-chucks. Two, mice are strong, but this mouse was as strong as a man.

“Kill it!”

The mouse sat staring at me as if waiting for my next move. I quickly stabbed at it again with my pointy stick, and it did a summersault out of the way. I pulled back and stabbed forward again. The mouse hit my stick; then he hit it again; then he hit it a third time. I felt this weird vibration in the rod, different from the last two vibrations, and then the rod splintered into a million tooth pick sized pieces.

The mouse laughed like the sound of a chirping bag-pipe and ran back into the cabinet below the sink.

“Get the gun!”

I howled, “I’m not shooting the gun in the house!”

“Get the gun, and kill it.”

I went and unlocked my pistol from the safe. I loaded it. I paused wondering if there might be a better solution.

“Kill it!”

I went back to the kitchen and the evil mouse sat on the counter by the toaster oven. He looked like he was smiling. I lined up the iron sights on my gun to its chest, and it scurried behind the toaster. I growled and aimed for the toaster. I waited.

I heard the faintest of metallic clicks. The mouse stepped from behind the toaster brandishing a tiny machine gun. He started squeezing off rounds, and I felt tiny needles pierce my knuckles. I took aim and squeezed off three rounds in quick succession, but all three missed. The mouse paused to reload, and I looked at my pained, bleeding knuckles. I fired again while he dodged left and fired. This time he was aiming for my face and the bullets stung. I tried to shield my face with my left hand while shooting with my right.

Finally the mouse ran out of ammo and scurried behind the deep fryer. I touched my face and could feel blood. My knuckles were bleeding on both hands, and my left palm was bleeding. There were at least eight holes riddling the walls from my gun.

“Stop missing!”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “He’s like lightning fast!”

“How can you miss so much?”

I glared. “I won’t miss this time!”

The mouse stepped back out from behind the deep fryer carrying a tube of some sort almost as big as a used up toilet paper roll. Except it wasn’t cardboard but steel, and it wasn’t hollow all the way through. The mouse lifted the tube on to his shoulder, and I realized it was a BAZOOKA. He aimed it for my face, and I put up my left hand to shield it. The mouse squeezed the trigger and a missile launched out of the bazooka. It hit the palm of my hand, exploded, and blew my hand clean off at the wrist. I howled in pain. The mouse started to do this stupid, happy dance, and I shot him in the chest!

I looked at my wrist. The explosion cauterized my blood vessels, so I wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. I could still feel my hand, and it burned.

“Call an ambulance!”

I put the gun in a kitchen drawer and called 911. I grabbed my keys and locked up the house. I sat down on the bench in the front yard and waited in pain for the ambulance. Sirens whistled in the distance after just a few minutes.

The first paramedic looked at me and said, “Dear god!”

“It hurts worse than it looks!” I said.

A second paramedic started wrapping gauze around my bloody stump of a left hand and asked, “How did this happen?”


I paused and then said, “It was a cooking accident. I was boiling water. I put a lid on the pan, and it created a perfect seal. The pressure built up, and the pan exploded.”

“I’ll bet,” the first paramedic said. “I’ll bet you were cooking something, maybe drugs or maybe explosives, and things went wrong.”

I smiled meekly. “In truth a mouse shot me with a bazooka.”

“Idiot. You didn’t want to tell him that!”

The second paramedic smiled. “Well, there’s a nice quiet place down at the hospital for you either way…”

“Please don’t take me to the funny farm,” I said.

“You don’t have a good, solid reason for why you’re missing a hand. I think you need to go to the quiet ward…”

The voice in my head howled, “Not again!”

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