Reluctant extermination

I am not fond of housekeeping. It strikes me as one of those things you just have to keep doing, like laundry, and it never ceases. I do it, against my will, and I've gotten much better, but that has not always been the case.
When I had a shoebox apartment in Columbus, Mississippi, I was a horrendous housekeeper. The only times I ever did major cleaning were when I had a gentleman friend coming over, and I actually pulled a muscle once while doing frantic cleaning.
The main area of disarray in my apartment was the kitchen. I hardly ever cooked, other than in the microwave, as I didn't know how to operate the gas oven, and I didn't have a dishwasher, so occasionally dishes might pile up for a brief (month-long) period.
One Friday evening, after a particularly grueling week at the job that systematically sucked my soul dry, I was looking forward to an evening in my pajamas of watching movies and doing little else.
As I settled in to watch "The House of Sand and Fog," I noticed something moving in the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look, my eyes met with the eyes of the biggest rat I have ever seen in my life. This was Mugsy, the gangster rat. Did Mugsy run away? No, he took a drag off of his cigar and dared me to do anything about his presence.
I screamed, grabbed the broom and ran toward him. He, in turn, ran toward me, and I threw the broom at him and jumped up on the chair as he disappeared into some crevice in the kitchen, presumably where he had entered.
Where was my fearless guard dog, you ask? Sleeping on the couch and giving me annoying looks while I caused a ruckus. I later came to suspect that he and Mugsy had been having parties during the day while I was at work. They didn't try to hide it, really. The house would reek of cigars, and I found poker chips in the couch.
But, I digress.
I had to set out to destroy this swaggering, gin-swilling rat that had taken up residence in my apartment. I sent for a friend with a cat, and we set the cat loose. No such luck, so I had to cordon off the kitchen from the rest of the apartment with a flat, cardboard box. Let's ignore the fact that a rat could've chewed through aforementioned cardboard box. It made me feel slightly less skeeved out by a rat in my kitchen, and I vowed only to enter the kitchen when absolutely necessary.
Next step: glue traps. What a truly useless invention this is. It stops the mouse, but you are supposed to "set them free," therefore making it a more humane method of trapping. Um..yeah, whatever.
The first of the babies (that's right) became stuck in the glue trap, and feminism aside, I refused to pick up the trap and called a male friend who was frighteningly happy to bludgeon the mouse with the broom.
The second of the babies became stuck while I was alone, thus leaving me and me alone to deal with it. Oy. I had to sweep it outside, while it tried to free itself, the whole time I'm yelling, "Stay on the trap, or I'll kill you now," because, naturally, the mouse understands me.
When I got it outside onto the porch, while asking it for forgiveness for my impending homicide, it managed to move itself to the edge of the porch while still attached to the trap. The thought of it escaping and making it back into the apartment was too much for me, so I ran around to where it had fallen and proceeded to brutally pound it on the head with the broom until I could be certain it was dead.
Incidentally, in case anyone is concerned, I burned that broom in a cleansing ritual after the apartment was dubbed as "clean" by me. (I didn't really, but I did throw the broom away immediately)
After this callous murder of Mouse #2, fearing retribution from a vengeful Mugsy, I called my realtor in a panic," Look, I have mice or rats or something. I've killed two mice in as many weeks. I can't live like this. It's unsanitary, and I won't be paying any more rent until this is taken care of."
So, they showed up the next business day, hunted for Mugsy, and plugged the holes that brought the gangster rat into my life.
I was finally able to completely sanitize my apartment and vowed never to leave that many dishes in the sink again, but I maintain that it was not really my uncleanliness that brought the mice inside.
I think Mugsy was looking for a base of operations, and my dog, Norton, provided some muscle for what he was hoping to accomplish.
I wonder what Mugsy is doing these days. I imagine him as the head rat in a money laundering or cheese mule scheme.