Besides taking out the garbage, “rodent control” was my primary chore and I did it with pride, often bragging about the number of casualties and how they died, vividly describing shattered spines and crushed skulls.
“One time, I found a mouse, still alive, dragging a trap behind him as he crawled across the garage floor … I dropped him into a pink plastic bag, the one the Free Press comes in, and smacked him against the oil-stained concrete.”
A circle of camouflaged men stood outside a gas station, smoking cigarettes, drinking cups of black coffee, trading stories of majestic white-tail bucks, lung shots, and foamy blood.
“Last week, I caught two mice in one trap!” I boasted, enthusiastically, to a ring of unamused faces.
How to Talk Dirty and Influence People