Short Story: Flatmate (Pt. IX)

He wasn’t all that smart. But he was the only one capable of killing that stoopid fucking mouse. Yes, it had evaded him at first – the automatic-return golf-putting system didn’t work. And proper mousetraps were useless. But then he came running into your room one morning, fairly early. Well it was before lunchtime anyway. And he goes, “I’ve done it. I’…