Yeah, so my Mom calls me a bit ago. Tells me it is an emergency. Tells me that there was some candy on the mantle in her living room. Tells me that it has all of these teeth marks in it. I knew right then and there that it was rodent-tyme.
Then she called me a few days later, told me that she could hear them in the house. Asked me to come spend the night. That was a no -an-do. Veronica, my wonderful sister went in and set up camp. I guess they were both sleeping in my Mom's room last Saturday night and they heard scraping somewhere in the room. That was at about 5AM. My cellie proceeded to explode from that point on.
My boy Matt was scheduled to be in town that morning at 8. His girlfriend had traffic school, and he needed somewhere to chill. Plus Doug and Miranda were going to be in town. I had a day laid out for me already. The pressure was on for me to drop it all and go kill yonder rodent. There was a lot of drama in my saying that I couldn't go out at the time. I unveiled a lot of deep down ugly familial history. So did my mother. In it all, I claimed that we are completely dysfunctional as a family. She offered that we go to counseling. She told me that if I were in a similar situation, she would drop everything and come and help me. Then I really started to bring up the history. It seems that when the drama (in this case, some form of hairy pestilence) comes, all of the shit boils to the surface. There were tears and there was anger. Veronica later left a dainty message on the machine that I am going to have to make into a .wav file and go hella public with later. Its that good. She makes me out for a real dick. I suppose I was. But it takes one to know one.
Later in my entertaining, we all went to the Mystery Spot in the Santa Cruz mountains. You don't know what I'm talking about?
It was dope. 5$ goes a loooonnng way in the Santa Cruz mountains. Plus, our guide had me convinced that we were in the middle of a vortex. But hey, if I built a cabin as fokked up as that one and charged you five bones to tell you that we were in the center of a vortex, you might just buy into it, seeing as your equilibrium would be completely jacked up.
Matt bought a Zippo. I showed him how to pop it open with a squeezing snap. I remember how it took me about a day to master that little trick. I remember marveling to myself that my fingers hadn't been that sore since those days at the Edgewater Packing Company when I used to blow my entire life savings on Defender. Matt figured it out in about an hour. Kids these days. We discussed the Tom Sizemore porno. We checked out perezhilton.com. We talked a lot of shit. Gabby's driving school instructor got a "no-seat-belt" ticket on her way in to teach class. There was pizza. There was a hike at the Wilder Ranch. There was a discussion about where we need to invest our money. Lots and lots of activity. I cooked a mean-ass roast beef that night. We all tore into a serious bottle of Yellow Tail. But the rodents in the back of my mind festered. I was going to have to handle them.
I went out to my Mother's house on Monday I think. Maybe Tuesday. Remember: INFESTATION.
Also understand that my father is in the hospital and my mother is never home anymore. She is always in the hospital, hanging out with my father. My father is better by the way. I thought I had lost him. He is back and coherent and...here. It is surreal. If you read those other posts, you can see that I was making my peace with his passing. Well, he is not passing right now. The leukemia is still there. He still is on his countdown...but aren't we all? He had 2 rounds of chemo that didn't take the cancer down. He went into some sort of head-injury inspired coma, and came to on Christmas day. He is scheduled to go back home next month. I am completely shell-shocked by this turn of events. I know his time is short, but I have been cut a little more time to spend with him. I just wish that my van could make it over Highway 17 and not give me a heart-attack. I just wish that the Mustang wasn't so overpowered. I just wish that there wasn't a Highway 17. Then I would see him more. On Sunday, I am going to jack his car, and use it to get up there more. This is ridiculous. When I die and go to hell, Highway 17 will be the road that I drive. FOR ETERNITY.
What the hell am I yammering on about? The point is that my mother is never home. So it makes sense that mice would move in while she is gone. There is no activity in the house to make them slow their roll. Let's get on with the infestation.
Let me tell you something about these little housemice: They didn't have a chance. I was so pissed that so much familial garbage and history had been cooked to the top over them that I was looking forward to grinding their little heartlights out.. They needed to take all of their filth out of the house, and they needed to do this in such a symbolic way that the familial filth that had been brewing would go too.
I got into the house. An exterminator had left sticky-paper out. There was a little fella twitching on it in my Mom's room. You know I had to fold that sucker over and stomp the hell out of him. I looked at him, between the 2 sides of the sticky paper post-stomp. His intestines had blown through his yellow teeth. It wasn't good enough though. I had a vendetta.
I swear these mice must have only been as big as...maybe their bodies themselves had the density and size of the cork in the Yellow Tail from a few nights previous. I found another twitcher in my mother's office. It was a foldover and a pulverizer with the pliers. These little mice were cute, but they also had to pay. There was another stressed out mouse stuck elsewhere and he got the gardening shovel. The only little furry bastard that had a chance was the guy that I saw out of the corner of my eye in the den. I watched him darting around for a bit. I put a couch up on its end. I went to tell my mother what was up. She really doesn't like the mice at all, so she went out front. I went back into the den and started moving pillows and stuff out of the way, so I could line up the Harley-Davidson bootstomp for the finisher. As I picked up one of the pillows, the little punk launched off of it, away from me.
I realized that I too, was creeped out by the idea of some dirty little warm piece of vermin crawling and scrabbling around near me. I knew that it was scared of me, but I had this angst, this loathing for him too.
I pulled it together. I went and grabbed a piece of the sticky paper. Let me tell you that this sticky paper isn't just sticky paper. It is some industrial stuff. It is about the size of the fat envelope that tells you you haven't paid on your student loans in years. It has a thick layer of some honey looking plastic stuff on it. That stuff is some of the stickiest trash I have ever tangled with. It stuck to my foot. Then it stuck to my hand. Currently, there is one in the house that is stuck to the television wire. I am thinking that I am going to have to cut that wire and splice it, because this glue isn't about to let go.
I pulled it together and stood on the stairs, watching this furry little prick do his thing. He was a cocky bastard. He knew I was there, and he knew I wasn't able to get my size 12 steel-toe on his back. Oh, but I would. And I did. I walked down to where he was darting around and put the sticky paper down. The paper had chocolate in the center, and I knew that this little prick had been living hungry on book binding glue for the past bit.
I stood on the stairs, and kept a flashlight down in the vicinity of the sticky paper. I saw him come out, sniff the paper and go back. I saw him come out and sniff longer and go back. Caution was his lover. However, the chocolate tested that relationship. He put one forward paw onto the paper. He stuck. He placed his other down for leverage. He was done. He started squeaking that cute little mouse squeak. I was giddy. Then, through some sort of strange feat of vermin gymnastics, he wound out sideways on the paper, twitching and squeaking. Oh, I was happy. I folded the glue in on him and proceeded to give him THE STOMP.
The stomp that paid him for the stress my mother has been going through (she hasn't slept in the house since).
The stomp that paid him for the 5AM phonecall and the ugliness that proceeded afterward.
The stomp that paid him for that rude-ass call my sister left later.
That little mouse became my sacrificial lamb. All of the sins of the Demmons went through my boot into that fragile, dirty hairball. All of the frustration of the previous several days were dispelled as the house shook from my boot's impact. That broken, misshapen, furry body went to the Marina Dump yesterday.
I think that THE STOMP sent echoes of fear and terror into the field mice surrounding the house. Imagine impact so hard and fast that you don't even hear your bones break. Imagine impact that blows your life the hell out of you. No last breath. No exhalation of spirit. Just am exquisite, precision snuff-job. You are dead before your bowels blow out of your rectum. Before your innards flail out of your mouth. No final twitch, just DONE. That is what I delivered. It was totally humane and satisfying as fuck.
I have been at the house every day this week, checking the traps. Nothing. They are done. So am I.
I hugged my mother shortly after THE STOMP. I told her that I love her. I told her that she should never think that I don't. She told me that hearing me say such a thing was music to her ears. Then she told me that she loved me, and that I should never think otherwise.
I would stomp mice all day for a shot at another moment like that one.