My Impulsive Side: Geez, that new Chinese Stealth fighter looks kinda scary. This is going to inflame tensions in that region – moreso. I mean, what has the US military pulled out of its ass lately?
My Rational Side: Oh please. Some grainy black and white footage of some jet and the blogosphere acts like Red Dawn is coming. Show me the Chinese doing something with these that isn’t spying on their own populace, then I’ll take notice.
MIS: Well, you have a point, but you can’t deny that…what the hell is that?
MIS: That! There, crawling over my copy of Horus Rising.
MRS: It would appear to be an adult house mouse.
MIS: Jesus Christ.
MRS: What? You did hear some skittering around last night.
MIS: Yeah, but I didn’t think it was a goddamn rodent!
MRS: Why are you getting all high pitched? It’s just a mouse.
MIS: If I’m getting high-pitched its only because this part of Dave’s brain is panicky. I’m not actually talking.
MRS: I know you’re not actually talking. We’re just personifications of an internal mental debate. Why do you think we’re able to talk so much? That mouse is going to be gone in two seconds.
MIS: Right, right. I forgot. It’s like Inception. Deeper inside the brain, the slower time flows.
MRS: …Yeah. Yeah, that’s what it is.
MIS: Jeez. Its jumped onto my NatGeo’s now.
MRS: Oh God, don’t be so pretentious.
MRS: “NatGeo”? Isn’t that what they call the TV Channel?
MIS: Oh don’t start.
MRS: They’re National Geographic’s asshat. Don’t abbreviate them like some trendy…
MIS: Trendy? When did abbreviations become trendy?
MRS: When the abbreviations sound way worse than the actual word! “NatGeo”? Sounds like a brand of bottled water.
MIS: Listen, can we have this internal debate at a better time. That furry little ball of disease is crawling across King Tut’s face.
MRS: They did another feature on Tutankhamen?
MIS: Don’t get me started. I’m not sure how much more we’re going to get about that damn mask.
MRS: Next September, they’ll probably have 20 pages on how the chin piece detaches.
MIS: More like they’re archaeologists will finally conform that Tut’s chin “wasn’t actually shaped like that”.
MRS: Woah now, Oscar Mike Impulsive Side.
MIS: “On Mission”?
MRS: Yeah, like in Modern Warfare. Let’s focus on the mouse.
MIS: No, Oscar Mike means you’re on your way to the mission.
MRS: Whatever, let’s talk abou…
MIS: …I mean, we’re here already. You want me to get closer?
MRS: The mouse, Impulsive.
MIS: Right, the mouse. I guess I should stop it.
MRS: Stop it?
MIS: Yeah, I mean…it’s a rodent. It can’t be good for the house.
MRS: Well, I sincerely doubt its carrying the Black Death or anything but I agree. It’s got to go.
MIS: Ok, we have consensus.
MIS: Well what?
MRS: What are you going to do?
MIS: I dunno. I guess…I guess kill it?
MRS: Kill it?
MRS: You’re not going to kill it. Not right now anyway.
MIS: Why not? I could…
MRS: What, smush it with your foot? He’d probably just dodge and you’d kick the wall.
MIS: I might be able to get him.
MRS: Yeah and you’d colour the wall, and your shoe, the colour of mouse brain.
MIS: That doesn’t sound too good.
MRS. Not one bit.
MIS: I guess that rules out throwing something at him then.
MRS: What would you throw?
MRS: Not exactly aerodynamic.
MRS: Might regret it later.
MIS: That weird-ass Chockobo thing I won at Brocon?
MRS: It’s a plush toy, so it probably wouldn’t kill him.
MIS: It could slow him down…
MRS: Moving right along…
MIS: What, I’m the impulsive side, remember?
MRS: He’s nearly gone. If we’re gonna do something…
MIS: Trap him?
MRS: What, Mr Mercy all of a sudden?
MIS: Oh make up your goddamn…
MRS: …mind? Kinda hard when I’m just part of it. What would you trap him with?
MIS: The wastepaper basket.
MRS: So, you’re going to get out of your chair, walk over, get the basket, walk back, and find Mr Mouse here has patiently waited for you to threaten his freedom?
MIS: He doesn’t seem to be paying me much attention, the arrogant bastard.
MRS: Nearly behind the desk.
MIS: Fuck. I should have just roundhouse kicked his ass.
MRS: Yeah, that would have been a spectacular success I’m sure. There he goes.
MIS: OK, this isn’t over. Actually, I can just press the desk against the wall now! Go all garbage compactor on him.
MRS: That’s a little extreme don’t you think?
MIS: What? Why?
MRS: You’re going to flatten the mouse? Just smush every part of his body at once, make him feel his bones crack as the pressure goes, hear the inevitable shriek of pain as his organs begin to…
MIS: Jesus, ok, I won’t flatten the furry git.
MRS: A hell of a mess to clean up if you did.
MIS: I suppose.
MRS: Let’s have a look then.
MIS: He’s not there!
MRS: I can see that.
MIS: Where the hell did he…he’s a crafty one, this mouse.
MRS: Let’s not get too emotional about this. It’s small mammal, not your mortal enemy.
MIS: No. He tasks me! He tasks me, and I shall have him! I’ll chase him round the Moons of Nibia, and round the Antares Maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up! Prepare to alter course!
MRS: What are you talking about?
MIS: I’m the impulsive one. I get all my thoughts from movies.
MRS: Yeah, well, steady as she goes Ahab. Lets’ just look at the side of the bed.
MIS: Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Nil pointe. Zip. The big zero.
MRS. Hmm. He can’t have gone far.
MIS: Now who’s being dramatic?
MRS: Quiet down, do..do you hear that?
MIS: No. What the hell are yoTHERE HE IS!
MRS: Holy crap, he got behind us (me? How far am I talking this debate?)
MIS: Wow, that was like Warp 7.
MRS: Quit it with the Trek. He’s gone.
MIS: Leaving the door open was a mistake.
MRS: Well, I didn’t think we should be creating a prison when I walked in here.
MIS: He’s not out here.
MRS: He could be in the bathroom, the other bedrooms, the immersion, downstairs. He’s gone.
MIS: Damn. The battle is lost…and yet the war continues.
MRS: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s get some traps or something.
MIS: Huh? I thought you wanted to catch him?
MRS: Not really. But I’d prefer just disposing of an intact mouse with a broken neck, than a pile of squishy mouse remains pressed up against a wall.
MIS: Good call. Must be nice to be rational.
MRS: Meh. Kinda boring. I have no imagination.
MIS: Bummer. Anyway, if he’s smart he won’t come back. YOU HEAR THAT MOUSE ? DON’T COME BACK!
MRS: Did you just make David say that out loud?
30 minutes later
MRS: God damn, you are stupid.
MIS: Oh let it go. It was a good idea in theory.
MRS: Mint chocolate on the trap? Genius. If only the mint didn’t have a liquid centre…
MIS: It wasn’t that big a deal!
MRS: Mint fondant all over my fingers…
MIS: Our fingers. Anyway, it was a good plan, just…badly executed. Everything loves chocolate.
MRS: Yeah, but no one likes sticky, mint smelling fingers!
MIS: I’m sure that bit of ham will do just fine anyway. There we go. All set.
MRS: Now we play the waiting game.
MIS: Can we play Europa Universalis instead?
MRS: Sure. But you have to promise to stop declaring war on the Ottomans over bloody Malta.
MIS: Bathroom first.
MRS: If you must.
MIS: Well, I must. That OJ goes right thr…no way.
MRS: Snap. That is one dead mouse.
MIS: Holy crap, we killed it!
MRS: It would appear so. He must have come back in here while we were getting the trap.
MIS: I told him not to come back. I WARNED YOU MOUSE!
MRS: Yes, I guess he didn’t speak English. At least it was quick for Mr Brittle Neck over here.
MIS: I feel kinda manly. This is what men do, right? Take care of pests?
MRS: I suppose that can be seen as an aspect of…
MIS: …engaging in savage combat with the forces of nature, man against beast, the winner decided by he who has the pure strength of will to…
MIS: …shatter his foes resolve and ascend the mountain of triumph, exultating in the blood of his fallen foe…
MRS: Please stop.
MIS: …thanking only God for shining his light down upon him and turning away from his bestial foe. Yes, it is as that old epic poem says: “It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight, rising up to the challenge of our rivals. And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night, and he’s watching us all with the eye….of the tiger.
MRS: Yes, well, good job, now…
MIS: Bawm, tch, Bawm, Bawm, Bawm, tch, Bawm, Bawm, Bawm, tch, Bawm, Bawn Badawm…the eye of the tiger…Bawm, tch, Bawm, Bawm.
MIS: You’re no fun.
MRS: Oh screw this. Once we throw that thing in the bin I’m going into the subconscious to listen to some Doctor Who soundtracks.
MIS: Watch out for trains.
MRS: INCEPTION WAS JUST A MOVI…nevermind.
MIS: Bad luck mouse. Sigh… Of my friend, I can only say this: of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most… hew-mon.
MRS: Stop it.
MIS: Mr Mouse to the war is gone
On the Horus Heresy series you will find him
The room occupier’s NatGeo’s he has walked on
And his stapler not thrown at him
‘Land of mice’ said the warrior bard!
Though all the world defend thee!
On your neck at least this trap shall come down hard
One faithful snap shall break thee
MRS: I’m going to drink until you are dead.