by Lola Buncher
I did it. I put in the room service request to get this mouse problem handled. I didn’t know it would end up like this, I really didn’t. As I sat in my room, with the mouse scurrying around my ankles, I had no idea what was about to unfold. The exterminator arrived and started off by catching the loose mouse in his bare hands. He held the mouse close to his face and started whispering what I can only assume were horrible put-downs. He then promptly put the mouse in a miniature chokehold and started repeatedly punching its tiny face. I could see the tears welling up in the poor mouse’s eyes. He then kicked the mouse in his little balls. I can still hear that squeak of agony. I cried and begged the exterminator to stop. “You’re hurting him!” I exclaimed. Without missing a beat, the exterminator looked me dead in the eyes and said “This is what you wanted.”
Not like this, I thought, never like this! But I didn’t have the courage to speak up. He then pulled out a ping pong paddle from his bag. I had to look away, but I could still hear what was unmistakably a game of one-man mouse tennis. There is no way that mouse is gonna be able to walk this one off, I thought to myself, but I was wrong: this mouse was a fighter. He tried to scurry off, but the exterminator grabbed him by the tail and tied him to my ceiling fan, whacking him with every rotation, like a tiny tetherball. The mouse was finally dead. I asked the exterminator to please detach him from my ceiling fan, but the he insisted that the mouse needed to stay there as a warning to any of his rodent peers. Mouse tears still stain my carpet. To this day, the lifeless mouse that spins around my ceiling will always be a haunting reminder of the mouse blood that is on my hands.
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