The residents of Apartment 1 have lived beneath your reign of terror for the last three months. We have tried to coexist peacefully with your type, reading books on deism and trying to live in accordance with every living creature in the natural world. We have tried to turn a blind eye to the occasional droppings in our shoes and the movement we’ve heard within our walls.
But as the threat of summer heat is broadcast on the news channels and evidence of your unlawful squatting becomes even more apparent, it is time to act. Clearly there is no end to your voracious need to horrify us: the little nests forming inside kitchen draws, the pitter-padder of thousands of paws in our closets, and the eternal vigilance of staying up all night to protect one’s self from you.
We have bought live traps so as not to kill you. We have walked you down to the park in said live trap and have set you free. Once, we accidentally forgot about the live trap for two weeks and discovered that three of you had died in them. We have also ceased to eat anywhere but the kitchen table. We have put all cereal into a sealed, air-tight container. We even adopted a cat.
And yet you persist. You taunt us at all hours of the night with your crawly noises. You race, not cautiously, like polite guests, but with courage, with abandon across our hardwood floors. It’s gotten to the point where citizens live in fear, forming a barricade around their beds and sofa and feet with whatever objects are available, such as dirty clothes and a stapler, in the hopes that you will be dissuaded from pooping on our faces as we slumber.
You have proven yourselves to be fearsome opposition. We recognize that you are no ordinary mice. We have witnessed you slalom gracefully in between traps. We have seen you leap across our counter with the grace of a feline. We know you don’t stick to the rules printed on the glue trap labels about how you only run in one direction, instead darting in every manner of catty-corner and trapezoid, the geometry of fauna who live lawlessly, unbothered by laws or conscience.
But guess what, mice. We’re done pretending you don’t exist. We’re done being scared. We’re done “calling the landlord.” We are taking matters into our own hands, and we are not giving up until our brave apartment is free of pestilence. Mice, our message is simple:
It’s Judgment Day.
Yes, you are the size of our pinky. Yes, you can get by on eating garbage and reach sexual maturity within two weeks of birth. But you have not yet experienced the wrath of a people who no longer allow themselves to live in fear.
For you may have speediness, but we have opposable thumbs. You may have agility, but we have the internet. And common house mouse, latin name mus musculus? Consider yourself Googled.
We have been to the internet sites. We have been to the hardware store. We have been back to the hardware store, because a very hot guy works behind the cash register. We have assembled our arsenal. We have tied a bandana around our heads like a ninja. We have put a matching ninja mask on our cat.
Mice, you have pooped in our new patent leather pumps. You have made nests out of our favorite shirts. Moreover, you have left emotional wounds that will forever cause us to be afraid of rustling noises in dark corners. And we’re not gonna take it any more.
Consider this your final warning.
As of this day, the 7th of August in the year of our lord two thousand and eleven, this is no longer a intergovernmentally mediated problem. This is war.
We have glue boards and we know about your weakness, the Double Cheese Cheeto’s.We have more live traps. We have trained our cat with cat-nip stuffed fake mice. We will not rest until the apartment is safe for snacking wheresoever we may roam, until residents may sleep peacefully at night without having nightmares of six-foot rats named Splinter.
We do this in the name of all those before us who have been oppressed by vermin, in ever apartment, in every city across the world. We do this on behalf of anyone who has ever missed her god-given right to shower herself in cookie crumbs while watching the Kardashians at 3am on a Tuesday.
Justice will be served, mice, and glory will be ours. Party time’s over.