The other night, while packing up her things to move out of her apartment, Bridgette thought she saw a mouse run under the couch from the corner of her eye. She said she only glimpsed it for a moment, and it was something smallish and dark scooting across the room. Whether it was a mouse or not, she was pretty spooked. I told her not to worry about it. After all, it might turn out to be a poisonous snake.
Yeah, the way I figure it, Bridgette’s probably got another damned cobra coiled under her couch, and soon enough I’m going to have to go deal with it. With my luck, it’ll plunge it’s yellow fangs into my neck-flesh and send deadly venom coursing through my bloodstream before I have the chance to stun it with a mallet. Then I’ll end up at the hospital on a lousy respirator, tenderly whispering my final words to my loved ones before my heart explodes. Then my coffin will be stuffed with writhing cobras, (as per my last request) allowing the cobras to hollow out my corpse and nest inside my husk until they run out of food and devour each other. And after all that, Bridgette’s still stuck with something alive in her apartment.
Oh well, whatever it is, she can probably just gas it to death.