The Rodent, Senior Gato, and The Scorpion Slayer

Last Sunday I came home from Managua after a day of chick flicks and fast food, my guilty pleasures. The bus ride was long, and upon returning home I immediately sought sustenance. I immediately felt something amiss, but could not quite put my finger on exactly what it happened to be. Then, I noticed... A small chew hole in the bottom of my bread bag.
What animal could possibly have the nerve to eat my, Patrick, the slayer of scorpions, bread. They must know that retaliation will be swift and decisive…
I spent the next few hours seeking the culprit, looking for the typical signs, droppings, bread crumbs, whatever may be left behind. However, the vermin proved elusive, even to my supreme investigative skills.
He then had the nerve to present himself to my roommate, Aaron. I recognize mockery when I see it. The vermin, now identified, and code named, as only “the rodent,” had the nerve to show himself in my house. I may have been able to give him a fair trial, had he not been so audacious, but now the verdict was in, only death would be sufficient.
Once again, I set out on my mission, now my obsession, to find “the rodent,” what I can only liken to a Russian KGB super-spy. Again, he proved elusive. Whenever he was trained, he was trained well.
Then, in his most audacious move yet, he skittered across our camp grill, one of our holiest of locations. This is the camp grill that cooks all of the GVI staff food, providing sustenance to its leaders. “The rodent” had not only infiltrated our organization, but now was trying to cut off our supply lines, weaken the leadership, and overthrow us all. This could not stand.
I ran down the hall to the secret nook where we hold our special weaponry, the Remington Clean-Sweeper, the best constructed of all broom weaponry. I slowly stalked the KGB agent, looking around the stove, under the refrigerator, and in the cabinets, anywhere that his hideout could possibly be.
As I stalked my prey, he was stalking me, and attacked. Well, not so much attacked, as ran on his four little legs down the hallway into the garage, where a plethora of hiding places lay.
GVI has no car, so uses the garage only for storage. Boxes are piled high, to the ceiling in some places. I, however, would not be put off of my task. I ripped boxes from the pile, threw them to the other side of the room, and dug deeper and deeper into the pile. I was unsure of what language “The Rodent” spoke, so I yelled to him in both English and Spanish, and I got pretty colorful, he had defiled my bread, tried to cut off supply lines to GVI, and bring down the organization, he was fucking with me.
I located the little shit below the lowest box, in the farthest corner, of the garage. I made my move with the Clear-Sweeper, and barely missed “The Rodent.” He flew behind an old, discarded, and stained mattress. I proceeded to stomp on the mattress, indiscriminately. I would kill him, regardless of the cost.
I lifted the mattress. Imagine my surprise when there was no squashed super-spy. Damn, he’s good. I stalked around the garage, looking for him. I looked suspiciously toward the garage door, and wacked it with the business end of the Clean-Sweeper. He scampered out, attempted an escape, but I cut him off, back to the door he went. I had him now. An easy kill. Just then, a feeling of mercy rose up in my chest and I battled it, but in the end I proved not to be able to deliver the kill shot. I pounded the garage door opener and “The Rodent” escaped into the night. Had I know what was to come, I would have ended his life there.
The next night, I ventured into the bathroom. Just to sit on my throne and do my business, maybe a little reading. Just as my pants were about to hit the floor, “The Rodent” attacked from behind the toilet. Now you can cut of my supplies, you can try and infiltrate my organization, but there are certain ethical guidelines that one must follow—you simply do not attack someone in “the sanctuary.” The bathroom is home base, neutral ground, where you are most vulnerable, where you are farthest from your weaponry. “The Rodent” knew he could not beat GVI playing fair, he needed to catch me with my pants down, literally.
We battled in these close quarters, the advantage his, due to his small size, superior spy training, and greater speed. He injured me, good. Upon trying to pick him up in a half-cut-milk-jug that I use to clean my shower, I rose too quickly and opened a three inch, crescent shaped gash in my left shoulder. I was numb to the pain, fueled by rage. I scooped him into the milk jug, his small size proving to be his downfall.
I walked to the front door, and, despite his unwarranted attack on hallowed ground, was, for the second time, going to give him his life back. Twice I held his life in my hands, and twice I had let him live. I tossed him from the milk jug, and into the street. He met the bricks hard, and was momentarily stunned, unaware of Senior Gato, the white tabby ally of GVI waiting in the wings. Senior Gato flew from an unknowing location and snatched “The Rodent” in his jaws.
And so ended the life of “The Rodent.” Good riddance. I am scarred for life due to his breaking of the rules of war.