I have had a couple of phobias in my lifetime. As a little kid I was afraid of Michael Jackson's Thriller video. Especially the part in the end when he stares back at the screen with that scary look that seems to say, "It's OK for grownups to sleep with children." As a teenager, my phobia was watching Unsolved Mystery reenactments in the dark. Or maybe it was just Robert Stack's kidnapper voice that made me run into my parent's room in the middle of the night during one of their awkward "lovemaking" sessions [Another phobia of mine]. Even now I have various mini phobias, such as Meg Ryan's lips, attractive high school girls who ask me to buy them alcohol and being forced to watch a Tyler Perry movie from beginning to end. But throughout my entire existence there has been one constant fear in my life: MICE.
Anybody who lives in an apartment in New York City knows that you are also living with an extended family of roaches and mice. Now roaches I could deal with. I'd find them milk swimming in my cereal bowl and flick them off of my Cocoa Pebbles without blinking. I probably accidentally ate a few of them since they look kind of like Cocoa Pebbles with legs [But they surprisingly tasted more like Fruity Pebbles] I could simply kill a roach with easy to find objects such as slippers, magazines, or your regular household handgun [Although that would be a waste of a bullet] But the furry little demons known as mice scared the unrepentant bug assassin in me. Everytime I saw one of them race past my leg or hear them squeak death threats to me [At least that's what I imagined they were squeaking] I would run away like a common sense thinking deer in headlights. In my bitch colored eyes, a mouse was sent to earth by Satan himself to suck the life blood out of my soul. It was so serious that I eventually stole a cat from a bakery. For ten years that cat was the Kevin Costner to my Whitney Houston. There was no traces of rodent life for a long time in my apartment and I was feeling good, sleeping better, and crying less. Until that one fateful morning when I found my feline bodyguard...dead. [Cue Unsolved Mysteries music]
He was face down in his litter box. The coroner called it a drug overdose but I immediately suspected foul play. After Petey's [my cat's name] death I became depressed and moody. I would have nightmares and wake up in cold sweats meowing and screaming. Eventually my life started to become normal again thanks to constant prayer and hardcore drugs. And then one night I saw something I hadn't seen in 10 years...and it had a face only Walt Disney could love. Once I saw the four-legged beast, my heart started racing like Marion Jones on a full steroid high. My phobia was back...and so were my bladder problems. There was an unwanted visitor in my home and it was up to me to do something about it. And I planned to do something about it... as soon as I got down from the dining room table.
My first point of attack was to buy some mouse killing products. What I found was that mouse murdering technology had not come that far in the last ten years. Glue traps and mouse traps were still the most advanced execution methods for rodent predators. Honestly I think its about time someone created something we could spray on them like RAID which would cause instant death or at least a roofie we could put in their drinks. But alas I was forced to use these medieval death traps. In the next couple of weeks the nasty critter never once got caught. I even created a fake female mouse and placed it on the trap in the spread-eagle position with cheese placed in its fake mouse vagina. The mouse never tried to fuck it. A bunch of roaches gang banged the hell out of it though.
I gave up and decided to face my fear head on. I called him out. I was like, "Where you at, you little beeatch meeouse?" I was hoping my fake thug voice would be intimidating. Finally I heard a sound and looked behind me to see...
My dead cat? He was standing on two paws while his other two paws were pointing a gun in my face.
"Petey?" I nervously asked?
"Yeah it's me." he purred.
"No. You're supposed to be dead. I saw you lying in the litter box!" I responded.
Then suddenly I heard a British sounding voice coming from the floor. It was the mouse.
"Well sometimes looks can be deceiving." said the British mouse.
He began to explain the whole plan which consisted of the mouse paying my cat to fake his own death [Its always about money isn't it?] and then eventually helping each other get rid of me so the mouse and his family could take over my kitchen and the cat would get to sleep on my bed whenever he wanted. They wouldn't tell me where they learned how to speak English though.
"Why Petey why?" I effeminately asked.
"When you stole me from that bakery, you took me from my family. My mom, my brothers and sisters, and the girl with the big tits that used to make ham and cheese sandwiches." said the cat long-windedly.
"Oops." I sincerely said.
"Stop being a pussy, pussy! Now shoot this human in his human head!" the mouse commanded.
After that I don't remember what happened. I just know I woke up in a hospital with a mild head injury. A police officer told me that they found my cat dead with a bullet in his head. They ruled it a suicide. The mouse was also found...stuck in a glue trap. He then gave me a note that they found at the scene of the crime.
I opened it up and began to read it:
Dear J-Fernz,
You're Welcome.
The Roaches
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