I know you gotta eat. I know you’re hungry. I can relate to that feeling. I’m hungry, too. A lot. The difference between me and you is that no one’s going to kill me if I start eating, mainly because I make it a practice of not eating where I’m not supposed to. For example, I don’t waltz into the middle of a Mafia meeting and start chowing down on a Big Mac. I’m not generally known to eat my lunch in the middle of a shark tank. I’m not in the habit of dining with rattlesnakes.
Let me be perfectly clear, rodent. You woke me up last night, and for that–and that alone–you must die.
I will hunt you down like the varmint you are. I will snap your head off, poison you, explode your innards, electrocute you, glue you to the floor and then throw you in the trash before you decompose. Or after. And I won’t blink an eyelash. That’s the sort of cold-blooded mouse killer I am. I will make other mice use you as the basis for a mouse-Braveheart biopic. When I’m through with you, even your ol’ pal Pluto won’t be able to recognize you. Minnie will be in tears (though she better cry quietly–and not at 2 AM). Goofy will need therapy. Donald will dance with glee. The Rescuers will put me on their Most Wanted list. Stuart Little will have nightmares for decades. Mighty Mouse will quake with fear. Tom will give me a high five.
I will do this for the simplest of reasons. I’m big. You’re little. I have a mouse trap, and you don’t. I’m cruel, heartless, mean, spiteful, vicious, and downright Machiavellian. I’m the Freddy Krueger of Mice Street. The Predator of Arnold Micennegger. Hannibal Mouseter without the desire to eat you when you’re demised.
You hear me, mouse?
You’re gonna die, and there’s only one thing you can do to avoid this fate.
Move out of my house. Today. Run away! Take your family. Tell your neighbors. Do it now, or suffer the consequences.
You have been warned.