boxterjulep

I wish I had had my camera ready for a photo op of scraping live mice off the kitchen floor. Kind of got into the spirit and forgot. With a flashlight we looked under the broiler. What we thought was a nest was actually a trap: mouse trap. It was not of our own doing. Something greasy, goo, an oily mess had become a potent vise grip gluing silly mice to the floor. The bastards had been squeaking and mocking us. Or so I thought. They had been screaming for help. The only help they could get was a coat hanger, unwound, wedged under the broiler. Then, it's beady eyes watching as the hanger pulled, pulled their tiny bodies outward until something would give. Sometimes the whole body detached from the legs and the tail. Some were already dead which made it less gruesome. The ones that bothered me were the ones I thought were dead but were still alive. One last sudden jolt and a squeal as their flesh was yanked from the thick sticky muck. The clean up consisted of scraping the remaining grease with their limbs and tails and fur and droppings off the floor and sweeping them into a dust pan.

I've had dreams of rats nibbling my eyelids while I'm asleep. I lay still and hope they'll go away.

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all i care to say at this wee hour is what
Keiji Haino says in the song "First Blackness"