They were everywhere! Crawling up my pants leg, scurrying across the floor, sitting by my keyboard...oh, wait..no, that one's okay.
But the rest were crazy! The genetic mouse variant I was assigned was the strangest of all: actual computer mice!
"How did this happen?" I asked, startled by the odd species of mouse before my eyes.
Jon answered, "Well, uh...see, I had a pet....Nobella; You'd have loved him...um, well..." He opened his wallet to show me a picture.
"Well, these won't work as breast implants!" I said to myself as I stared into the horde of these nasty little pointing devices. I had on my surgical gloves with a scalpel in hand, the original plan being to insert the little silicon mice into the breasts of high class female celebrities. Pauly Shore was already signed up for three. It was clear I'd have to go about this another way. I needed a new plan...
If only catching Sylars was the mission. The dumber the creature, the easier to exterminate. But unlike Sylar, these mice can find their way out of a maze.
Then, it hit me. I can shoot them! I've been aching to shoot something since I've started this competition. For gladiators, these intergalactic kind sure are wimpy. I guess they still use the giant Q-Tips in battle. Some of us are more evolved...and some of us are even more evolved than the evolved ones.
I'm talking, of course, about Martians.
Intelligent. Funny-looking. And West-approved. These aliens had the technology I'd need to blast my computer mouses to computer bits.
I decided that I could sneak aboard an Interglactic Gladiator Federation spaceship, fly to Mars, break into their top secret weapons design facility, beat the guards unconscious with a can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, grab a prototype blaster, escape back to Hacknor, and start blasting away...or I could try eBay.
A short bidding war later and I had the alien weapon delivered to my door. "Wow, this is such a nice gun," I said examining my new sidearm.
"OOh, Mr. Glasses! That's an awesome vibrator!" Sylar complimented.
"It's a gun," I pointed it at him, ready to shoot.
"Oh, silly billy, you know I can't die from being shot! And look at you...a suit and tie? If you're packing alien heat, like, you totally need some space guy duds!"
He was right, of course. I couldn't go around blasting a blaster in company-issued clothing. I need to dress to kill, the first rule of gun safety class.
As I adjusted my codpiece, I knew these mice wouldn't stand a chance. I began firing away at the little half-mechanical mice. They screeched in a panic and attempted to flee.
"Ha! Go ahead!," I mocked, firing during pauses for breath. "Attempt to flee! You can run, but you can't not be blasted by my awesome laser shooter!"
The mice were dropping like flies. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Their goose was cooked. Then, things were as quiet as a mouse.
I glanced around. Mouse skeletons littered the battlefield. I perceived it as a great victory glancing around at my vanquished foes.
I had taken care of my mouse variant. I only hoped my team was as effective with their mices. Once we add my super cool alien blaster to their incredible traps, we'll have the ultimate mouse-killing machine. PETA will crumble at our might!
"Move over Garfield, there's a new fat cat in town."
That's when Bob Barker jumped out at me. "Great job, Bennet!" He congratulated me with a nudge at my shoulder. His near-perfect teeth reminded me of a science class skeleton, as did most of the rest of him. He continued, "but you know, you could have just removed their balls."
"You mean spay or neuter?"
Old gladiators...gotta love 'em.