Thanks to my cunning plan, lightning-like reflexes, eagle eyes, steely determination and the good luck of sitting down and doing nothing while a mouse ran by and then stopped to cower where I could reach him, I had managed to overwhelm the enemy.
With extreme-ish prejudice, I semi-terminated the mouse leader, exiling him to the great outdoors, home to many wonderful sights to see, like swooping owls, slithering snakes and ravenous raccoons, all ready and willing to show a mouse a good time. Well, a good time for them. The mouse? Not so much.
Still, dudes, I had to conclude that Operation Mighty Hunter II was an unqualified success. What I didn’t know was that, although I had struck a mortal blow to the leadership and the morale of the Rodentia enemy, Mickey still had some fight left in him.
Through painstaking intelligence gathering techniques too classified to go into here, I managed to piece the following together to explain the horrific events that took place on the morning after the conclusion of Operation Mighty Hunter II.
During the night, numerous members of Mickey’s warrior elite met and screamed at each other, all knowing their cause was lost. All determined to strike one final blow against the massively noble warrior who had taken out their leader. In other words, dudes, me. They wanted to take out me.
Finally, the biggest and meanest of Mickey’s fierce fighters, staggered free from the SqueakerDome where many mice entered, but only one mouse left. He knew what he had to do.
Working swiftly, Mickey cobbled together an explosive suicide vest made from C4 and gelnite as well as some seriously destructive bits of cardboard he happened to have around. Strapping the explosives around his chest, Mickey went to stand sentinel in the laundry room closet, confident in the knowledge that he would drop to my head, cling to my hair and manage to detonate his explosives, thus wiping out the greatest warrior Mickey had ever known. And the mouse.
Fortunately, mice aren’t known for their prowess with explosives. Or suicide vests. Or, really, long-term memory. Apparently, they forgot that I didn’t have any hair on my head.
I went into the closet to get food for the lazy, good-for-nothing cat who couldn’t close the deal on Operation Mighty Hunter I and Buzz, the garbage disposal that walks like a dog.
From high above in the closet, Mickey dropped squeaking his ultrasonic battle cry. Fortunately for me, I was so very sleepy, I didn’t notice when Mickey hit my bald head and then started sliding free. I just casually brushed it away.
Mickey fell to the floor. Well, almost. He hit in the middle of Buzz’s water bowl, the sides too steep for him to climb out. With the vest weighing him down, Mickey didn’t stand a chance.
Later that morning, I went back to the laundry room to find Mickey floating, face up in the water dish, his corpse poisoning the water hole in one final act of defiance, the vest nowhere to be found.
That’s the part that worries me, you see. That there might be another Mickey, maybe even a female, who desires revenge, who we could call Minnie, just for the heck of it, waiting. Waiting and planning.
And remembering the ancient Rodentia proverb: Revenge is a dish best served. . . with cheese!
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