Sistah Diaries

Finding the humor in chaos

The War of the Rodents: A Fairy Tale by Sistah Grim (omission of ‘M’ intentional)

The following story is true.  It is not so much a story, as a fairy tale.  Like fairy tales used to be before Walt Disney, and PETA showed up and sanitized them.  No, this is a grizzly tale, with a grizzly end.  And a Princess.

Chapter One: A Princess in Need of Armed Protection, Locates a Husband.

Once upon a time, there lived a Princess.  This Princess possessed many powers.  Unfortunately, the Princess had no powers to live as a pioneer, or otherwise function without air-conditioning.  Instead, the Princess possessed mainly the powers to litigate, and beautify her surroundings.  The Princess also subscribed to the Scarlett O’Hara theory of firearms: “I can shoot straight, if I don’t have to shoot far.”  OK.  That’s an exaggeration.  The Princess could neither shoot straight, nor far.  Accordingly, the Princess required armed protection.

The Princess located a husband, who was well-armed and who fancied himself a pioneer.  She wore a tiara and the two decided to live happily ever after in a Cottage in the Garden District in the Kingdom of Baton Rouge.

Chapter Two:  The Storming of the Castle FU on Longwood

While living in the Cottage, the Princess and the Husband set their sights on the neighboring land of Longwood Drive.  They conquered its former inhabitants – who were (no kidding) Hoarders.  After weeks of evacuating, scrubbing and purifying the Manor of weird stuff left behind by the Hoarders, the Princess Bride laid plans to beautify that castle otherwise known as A-Fixer-Upper-In-A-Better-Neighborhood, selecting paint chips and searching for architects.

Although the Castle Fixer Upper (sometimes shortened to Castle F-U) sat upon some relatively prime real estate in the Realm, the Hoarders left the Castle a state of drafty disrepair. Winter was setting in and the Castle was as impossible to heat, as it was to cool.  While those not trained in Litigation Powers, may not realize the advantage to the draftiness, the draftiness was an indication to the Princess, that the Castle – despite its age – did not contain asbestos.  Many years of practicing her Litigation Powers had taught the Princess: Asbestos may kill you, but it is really functional as insulation.  Whatever was insulating the Castle F-U was either gone, or never there.  As a result, the Princess was comforted – but cold.

All the while attempting to develop the powers of functioning without air conditioning, the Princess remained naïve of what lay ahead, as nothing she had experienced before could prepare her for the ensuing War of the Rodents.


Image via Flickr

Chapter Three: The War of the Rodents – a War of Attrition Resolved by Getting Medieval

Those bastards began recon in approximately October.  They left subtle signs of their presence.  Teeth marks in sweet potatoes. Poop.  Sounds of scurrying around in the night.  It became clear that this was no mouse in the house; this was its big, gigantic less socially acceptable cousin. Code Name: Henry.  (So the neighbors wouldn’t know).

The Princess and the Husband began making plans to eradicate the Henries from the earth, and the Realm, or at least the Castle F-U.  The Princess wondered aloud philosophical and important questions: “Would flying buttresses be excessive? Or would they look dated in a few years? Is this going to interfere with new drapes?”

The Husband emphasized that redecorating was no way to defeat this enemy.  The Husband then set off to the Land of Home Depot and returned to the Castle with provisions and a plan. “We’re going medieval on their asses,” he decreed.

Lethal Sara

Chapter Four: The Fog of War and a Pellet Gun Munitions Error Borne of Enthusiasm

And so, one cold November evening, the Husband retired early, exhausted from a day of doing battle with the Henries, with the only casualties being more sweet potatoes.  The trap was set with peanut butter, as a Google search revealed its advantages over cheese when luring Henries. The Princess was practicing her Litigation Powers late into the night.  She was clad in her Battle Gear of Flannel Pajamas, UGG boots and gloves in her freezing ass cold (hopefully) asbestos-free and soon to be Henry-Free Castle F-U upon Longwood.

When there, she heard it.  The unmistakable clap.  There was no doubt in her mind.  Henry had been captured, and hopefully killed.  Powerless when faced with a Henry, alive or dead, the Princess crept around the kitchen and into the Bedchamber where the Husband slept.  She awoke him with profanities, her typical Battle Cry against the Henries.  In the trip between the office and the Chamber, she’d gone all Braveheart, and cried out that those Henries “MAY TAKE OUR SWEET POTATOES BUT THEY WILL NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOMMMMM.”

The Husband was disoriented and put on a wacky bathrobe, and was otherwise clad in boxer shorts, an old man t-shirt, slippers and his black socks from that day at work. The Princess was still terrified to enter the kitchen, where no doubt the Henry lay dead, or worse an army of other Henries would seek revenge by storming the Castle F-U.  When suddenly, she heard squealing from the Husband and instinctively the Princess knew: Henry was alive, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Because this Castle F-U on Longwood, was contained in the Realm of the Southern United States, and the Husband was at all times armed, he called out to the Princess: “Please.  For the love of all that is holy.  Get the GODDAMN Pellet Gun.”

The Princess opened the closet containing a myriad of long guns, and in the confusion produced a shotgun sufficient to blow a hole in the (hopefully) non-asbestos containing, yet vintage paneled wall that looked like the one Don Draper had in his den.  After more profanity the Husband performing a weird minuet to avoid Henry, and a correction by the Princess of her munitions error borne of enthusiasm, the Princess managed to locate the pellet gun.  The Husband opened fire.  The Princess began uttering words of encouragement – which in the heat of battle emerged as a tirade of F Bombs and questioning how it is possible that the Husband could shoot a duck dead out of the sky but could not hit a f’ing rat at point blank range.

Alas, the Husband and the Princess both looked like well-educated idiots, and had yet again been outsmarted by the Henry, who escaped into the cold winter’s night.

Chapter Five: This ain’t no Beowulf Cinderella

By the time darkness next fell over the Castle F-U on Longwood, the Princess and the Husband were undaunted, and still pissed.  A bigger clap trap was set for the Henries, this time, with still more peanut butter.  The Princess was again practicing her Litigation Powers, when a resounding “CLAP” broke through the brisk night (hopefully non-asbestos containing) air.

She again crept around the kitchen, this time fully able to recognize – even battle weary – the weapon of choice of the Husband. Accordingly, she selected the Pellet Gun, as opposed to a grenade launcher.  She used the Pellet Gun to rouse the Husband from his slumber (no she did not fire it at him; she simply nudged him with the barrel), and informed him in a voice low enough to avoid alerting the enemy – “The f*cking Henries are back.”

After he wrapped himself in the armor of the wacky bathrobe, old man t-shirt, dark socks, and slippers, the Princess handed the Husband the Pellet Gun. Since, seriously, she can’t tell a BB gun from a shotgun, what the hell was she going to do with it? She then followed the Husband as backup. She knew she could potentially cross-examine the Henry under an uncovered lightbulb or something if necessary. As they approached the kitchen, she heard the Husband announce somberly: “Well. Henry is dead.”

Somehow the Princess underestimated the carnage that could be created by the sadistic medieval looking clap trap.  She had assumed that Henry would lay peacefully asleep with its weird-ass-yuck tail and fur intact, and they could set him off to sea in a Viking boat or something and then set him on fire like at the end of Beowulf.  But this Henry basically exploded.  And it was really, really gross.

The Husband armed himself with the Princess’s pink dishwashing gloves and averted his head as he picked up both halfs of the formerly whole Henry. At least he was wearing the black socks with his slippers again, because that only made the scene more infuriatingly ridiculous.  The Husband left the Henry Guts on the floor in a state of bewilderment and then pleaded aloud to the Princess “COULD YOU PLEASE AT LEAST MOP THE FLOOR.” The Princess was feeling very demoted, like Cinderella pre-Glass Slipper, and was, secondary to her utter lack of pioneer skills: HYSTERICAL, and completely grossed out.

Chaos ensued with the Husband holding both halves of a formerly whole rat, and the Princess dry-heaving as she cursed the Castle F-U on Longwood and the Husband for dragging her here.  She mopped and sobbed and sobbed and mopped and the Husband disposed of the Henry Carcass, the medieval trap, pink dishwashing gloves, the whole shebang.  The Princess did not care where either half of the Henry went or the Husband at that point, as long as all three of them were somewhere outside while she wept.  The End.



The next morning, the stalemate continued in the Castle F-U on Longwood.  This is because people who say “don’t go to bed angry” are people who either don’t sleep, or who have never been married.  The Princess arrived at her Tower where she practiced her Litigation Powers during daylight hours. She used the Telephone to summon the Husband and to end the Stalemate saying: “Well.  At least it’s all over now.”  To which the Husband replied, “Heather, it’s not as if Henry was a bachelor.”

To be continued . . .

Feature image via Flickr
Heather Cross

Heather Cross

I am an attorney practicing law and yoga in the Great State of Louisiana. I spend my spare time seeking the meaning of life, the perfect pair of black skinny pants, and Mr. Right Now. I have one roommate, a fluffy white cliché of a dog, named Annabelle, who spends her spare time solving crimes and running for Homecoming Queen of our neighborhood. Here's to my first foray into the blogosphere. Glad to be here.
Heather Cross

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