When I got back from the gym last night, I was disappointed to see none of my deadly mouse-meals had been touched. Would D-Con be as useless as the humane trap? I began to despair. I wrote, watched DIRTY MARY, CRAZY LARRY and hit the sack.
I woke up this morning, started getting ready for work and, from the corner of my eye noticed... Could it be? Yes... the D-Con over by the stove was gone. The fucker fell for it. He ate the poison! I got all Lucrezia Borgia on his motherfucking ass! Choke on jolly roger-shaped candy corn!
Unless that mouse had been building up a tolerance to poison, according to the D-Con box his ass is GUARANTEED DEAD.
I had taken the life of another living creature, and yet I was as happy as a kid in his footy pj's finding a Red Ryder bb-gun under the tree on Christmas morning. I wondered... Is mouse-murder always so delightful?
I left the rest of the D-Con out. Mice have been known to reproduce. (I know, strange but true!) In case my little soap-eating roommate had spawned any progeny, I wanted them to enjoy the sweet taste of D-Con death. Poison is the special on the menu at Chez Mike for as long as it takes.
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