Toothpick in his mouth, the pest control man hooked his thumbs in his jumpsuit. “Okay. So, what you’ve got is a Death Weasel infestation.”
A small orange rodent with too many sharp teeth edged near the man’s foot. He kicked it against the wall, absentmindedly.
The house-owner, cowering on his coffee table, grimaced. “Is—is that going to be expensive?”
“As far as price goes—” The exterminator stiffened and looked down at his hand. “A scratch! They’ll smell the blood—”
A wave of Death Weasels burst into the room. They leapt on the exterminator, quickly overpowering him and stripping his carcass to the bone. Finished, they looked at the man on the coffee table.
He frantically dialed the next pest control listing.
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