Elliott Sinclair the III

So about a month after killing Hugh (R.I.P, buddy) a new unwelcome guest decided to make our home his. He made no attempt to hide himself, either; typically an unwanted guest will hang low so as to not inflame the true inhabitants. Hugh was good for that. He was timid. We would occasionally see him streak across the floor, a flash of grey and feet, but that was it.

The following story tells a bit more about the arrival, triumph, and ultimate defeat of Hugh:
Pink Mold

Elliott Sinclair the III, is a different breed than Hugh was. He's bold. He'll stand in the middle of our living room floor and give you hard looks.

Whenever we first christened Elliott Sinclair the III, we assumed with a name like Elliott Sinclair the III he was sure to be a classy character - he's a BLUE BLOOD, for fucks sake, same sort of pedigree as a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. Educated at Cornell, studied overseas, knows which fork to use with salad and which to use with steak (medium-rare, always with red wine.)

Elliott Sinclair the III, a true renaissance man.

I honestly thought our relationship with Elliott Sinclair the III was going to be different. The staring contest I could handle. I thought he was simply making his presence known, kind of a weekly debutante ball, except he was a dude. And a mouse.

The time finally arrived when we decided Elliott Sinclair the III had worn out his welcome. The debutante balls were increasing in frequency, making guests uncomfortable. He was pooping on the floor. He's a mouse.

I bought the, as the gentleman at Busy Beaver so eloquently described them as, 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps. $1.49 for 2, what a sad way for someone with so much potential to go out.

I set the traps out, both armed with a peanut butter covered cracker.

Then.... nothing.

Elliott Sinclair the III had vanished!!! To the hamptons, I surmised, to party with Paris, Nicole, and those douchebag twin guys who are in that really shitty band.

Cheers Elliott! Like a true blue blood, you knew when your welcome was worn out!

A week passed.

Two.

The mousetraps stayed armed and dangerous, but still no sign.

I arrived home from work one day to find one of the mousetraps had been sprung; there was no cracker in sight; no dead mouse in sight.

The following day, the other mouse trap was sans cracker, but otherwise undisturbed.

'Elliott Sinclair the III!!! You have shown your true colors, my friend! The rich become rich by freeloading off the poor, you ivy-league fuck-tard!' I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I loaded the mouse trap with a carefully placed potato chip so as to not set the trap.

The following day, the potato chip was gone again! Crafty son of a bitch! I re-loaded the trap with a peanut.

I came home from work today to find the peanut had been snatched.

'This is WAR, Elliott! Motherfucking class war!" I screamed, for once eclipsing the sound of the crazy Russians arguing in the computer store downstairs.

I carefully loaded the trap with yet another peanut. I sat, watched the Penguins game, and ate dinner.

Elliott Sinclair the III came out for his debutante ball, dressed in his finest fur.

I merely shook my fist at him.

He scurried away, then within minutes, I heard snap! and say the mouse trap flipping about.

"I got you, swine!" I swore under my breath.

Alas, no Elliott Sinclair the III. He had merely sprung the trap, trying to steal the peanut from under my nose.

I will defeat you yet, Elliott Sinclair the III.