.45 Caliber Headspace

What started as a slight, yet terrifying, scratching in the wall has now escalated into a full-scale home invasion scenario. When I first went to the hardware store to ask what to do about this scratching sound that was causing my nightmares, the heavily facial-pierced clerk simply gave me a look that suggested his vast superiority over me in all matters hardware (especially facial) and dropped a pack of mousetraps in my shaking hands. I looked at these traps, and then back at the clerk, then back at the traps, then to the hot chick behind me; afraid she might think me someone that lives beneath a restaurant in Chinatown. I said to the clerk, “I think you have me confused with someone that lives beneath a restaurant in Chinatown.” The clerk laughed, his face a ripple of metal. The chick laughed too and showed me the package of traps in her own hand. Then I laughed and asked her why she’d want to live beneath a restaurant in Chinatown; everyone knows this is where all the mice and tourists are. She said she knew that, but she actually lived in this neighborhood and told me that everyone was having mice problems. The clerk nodded in agreement. I trembled in fear.

“Mice problems?” Great, so in addition to all the crackheads and yuppies in this city, I now have to kill mice? What will we be infested with next, Canadians? I’m normally a pretty brave guy. I would fight six dudes if I had to; six very short, effeminate dudes with heart and equilibrium trouble; but “mice problems”? The thought of this made me afraid like a little girl. The mouse chick sensed this right away and hugged me tightly, while whispering in my ear that everything would be okay. I told her that she smelled like sugar cookies and that I was very, very afraid; hoping she would whisper more sweet comfort and hug me tighter still, down and to the left. She said she knew she smelled like sugar cookies, but that it was time to hike up my skirt and stop holding up the line, because she forgot to TiVo The Hills and if she misses it, I’m going to have bigger problems to worry about than mice. I knew she wasn’t kidding; my skirt was too long. And now I wanted sugar cookies, so I paid for the traps and skedaddled.

As it turns out, catching mice isn’t something that comes naturally. It takes days of practice and experimentation, much like learning to catch drunk chicks in bars—it’s all about having patience and the right bait. After a few failed attempts at baiting the traps with Cosmos, I tried some wadded up George Washingtons. This was equally ineffective. I was stumped. Then I remembered something about cheese. Men don’t readily stock cheese, however, unless they’re gay or Italian. I’m not Italian, so I checked the fridge to see what else I had; just Tecate and peanut butter. Luckily, mice appear to friggin’ love peanut butter (not so much Tecate). In fact, they love it so much; they devised an intricate system of pulleys and counterweights that allowed them to extract the peanut butter without setting off the traps. The actual physics involved in completely extracting the sticky foodstuff is beyond me, but they seem to have worked it out. By this time, I was starting to think that mice are actually harder to catch than drunk chicks, so I returned to the store. Metal Gear Solid was there and suggested I try some glue traps. I asked if the glue traps had peanut butter. He said no, they had glue, but that the glue was very effective. I figured I could still apply the peanut butter to the traps myself and that maybe the glue would cause resistance to the counterweights long enough for the mice to get high off it, so I bought a couple for them and one for myself.

I was soon to discover that glue traps are the shit. I never thought I would need to know this, but now I do. After the first night of putting them out, I caught four mice. I didn’t even need to apply peanut butter to the traps; seems they like glue just as much. When I came out in the morning and discovered these four mice, I dropped my bloody mary and did The Forbidden Dance of victory. I deserved it. Later, I bought the whole supply of glue traps and strategically placed them near each restaurant in Chinatown. I found myself wishing there were larger ones for tourists, but as I was disappointed to learn, a tourist trap is not a real thing.