Some would propose that toying with them as does the cat with the mouse sharpens the predator’s killer instinct, but there’s always that chance, no matter how slight, that the mouse may escape, run under the house maybe, find a hole up into the pantry somehow, start gnawing into your aged brie, sleeping in the chicken bouillon mix, taking his craps in the corn flakes, you get the idea. Suddenly, you’re like “Hey, Mr. Fluffikins, what the hell? I got mouse shite between my teeth and my soup tastes like hairy plaster; why didn’t you kill that frikker when you had the chance?!”
So why the mercy?
Your committed reporter rang Jack Marty’s doorbell for 45 minutes last night in order to seek out the straight dope once the coach inevitably accepted to open up.
-How exactly did this mercy card thing come into effect?
“We didn't compete the first 30 minutes of the
game. We figured that would do it.”
-No, I mean, why show mercy when you’ve clearly proven yourself to be the superior club? Why not finish your opponents off?
“Mercy isn’t physical. It's mental. It’s all happening up here” said Jack tapping his forehead. “It's your responsibility as a professional to be ready to show mercy when the time is right. (he paused) And I forgot my cuff-links at the Boston Four-Seasons, I get them on my time, that’s 1200 bucks out of my pocket and this way...hey, are you texting that?!”
The tone perceived in the last question was your cunning reporter’s cue that the interview wasover forthwith. The lunge towards the smartphone however, was the cue that it was time to run.
-I’m out, fatty! Bookin, yo!
“Hey! Get back here! Jeeves, release the raccoons! Hey, that fence is electrified, buddy! It’s your funeral if you touch it, I swear to god!”
He was bluffing about the fence. Curiously though, not so much about the raccoons. The pants were lost but the straight dope was secured regardless and dutifully passed on to you, dear reader.
More updates when hallucinations and frothing at mouth subside.