Letter to Michael

Dear Michael,

Can I call you Mike? I think we know each other well enough at this stage. Is that alright? OK. Well, you're a cunt, Mike.

Seriously, it's gone on for far too long now. The time has come for one of us to draw a line in the sand, and clearly it is I to whom that task has fallen. Really, are you a man or a mouse? Well, obviously you are a mouse. I know that. Hopefully, you do too, and you're not harbouring delusions of humanity. I mean, you squeak. People don't squeak, Mike. Certainly they don't do so with the regularity you have demonstrated, at least. Days ago, when I was still blissfully ignorant of your presence, I came frighteningly close to turning on a houseguest whom I had erroneously believed to be the source of the high pitched tones. What kind of person snores in such octaves? No man, and no mouse shall live to tell the tale of interrupting my sleep, Mike. You think this is over? It's just the beginning....you dick.

I know the resonance of those sounds, Mikey boy. Those were clearly the heavy breaths of an aroused mouse. Don't ask me how I know that. This isn't about me, nor my bizarre sexual proclivites, so don't you try turning this around on me, rodent. The point is, what's got you so turned on? I know I should have cleared all those clothes off the floor. I know it looks like there's been an explosion at The Gentleman Factory (not a euphemism, although I may need to coin it as such in future), but I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd stop getting your rocks off underneath my waistcoats. If you fuck my top-hat I will end you.

You went too far last night, mouse. Consecutive nights waking me on the fringes of 5am was bad enough. That irked me. Taking an obscene amount of erotic enjoyment from my clothes strewn across the floor was disgraceful. But you had to push it further didn't you, you low down dirty rat! You think this (I just pointed at myself, paying particular attention to my startlingly beautiful face bones) happens without effort? Let me assure you, you can't throw together a masterpiece of this magnitude without effort, preparation and sacrifice. Read that sentence carefully, Mike. Did you see any reference there to the events from last night? No? Of course you didn't, you fuckwit! Oh....you can't read, can you? Shite....I may need to reconsider the merits of this strongly worded letter. Give me a minute here....

Fuck it, I'll dictate it to you later, you little geebag.

Now, as I was asking you before, what happened last night, huh? Michael, Michael, Michael....you went too far, didn't you? Yes, you woke me again. Yes, you probably made sweet romantic love to various garments. I will admit that shining my phone into the darkness from atop my perched bed may have startled you. Perhaps shouting that "I will find you, I will kill you, and I will make your family watch, you little shit!" may have done little to ease relations between us. Still, I heard your little mouse laughter. Taunting me, you were! Clearly taken aback by your refusal to fuck right off into the night like the little cheese whore that you are, I recoiled in shock and disgust.

*THWACK*

Yeah, I bet you thought it was funny, me near enough knocking myself unconscious against the ceiling. I've got priors in that regard. How do you know about that? Have you been researching me!? WHAT DO YOU KNOW!?

If I hear your pathetic squeals of delight one more time in the dead of the night, I will find you. You will get cocky, and you will make a mistake. Then you'll be mine, Mike. Then I will make your family watch. The last thing little Casey Poe smells will be my, stinking breath!

Yours in eternal loathing,
Deebs