Attack of the Face Eaters

There is a time for killing.
Or at least spearing.
We get together on Monday nights, when the kids return to their homework and we need a little fellowship (see also: beer) to unwind. Justin and Dustin (the Ustins, hetero-lifepartners) had most of a keg left after their Halloween party, so we sat in their basement drinking, admiring the fake spiders and mice.
Mice?
Wait.
That one runs.
Why is it running if it is not--ohmyGodthat'sarealmouse! Aeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It's in the laundry room.
What the hell? Oh, yeah. The window we left open all night. It gets so hot down here.
The next 45 minutes were a discussion, during which the mouse would emerge and be shrieked back, about how to eradicate The Rodent Issue.
Justin laid a foundation of duct tape beneath the door and the mouse came out, irritated but no less determined.
Finally we watched in silence while he ran across the floor and in seconds we had him cornered. Justin pushed away some decorative wall Zombies and fake cobwebs while the others crouched low with their weapons: duct tape ball, water bottle, metal siding, size small sombrero.
A hit! A palpable hit!
The mouse let out a horrifying scream and disappeared into a crack in the woodwork.
Have you heard a mouse scream? It chills the blood.
We slunk back into our chairs, certain that it would not come back. Me, with my feet off the floor.
It's really hot in here. We should open a window.