Don't think I won't catch you. You may have won the last round, but I will see this through to the end---sweet revenge will be mine. You may have found a way around the strips of fly paper, the shattered glass laid out around the vents, my now departed cat, the mousetraps, and the sadly miscalculated elf-sized-poison-laced cookies that eventually cost me my cat. However, you will not escape what I have coming.
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Remember who started this. The tiny notes with the vulgar threatening language and the disappearance of my glasses didn't do much to win me over. In the end though it has been the continued theft of the spices from the rack set atop my kitchen counter that has closed my heart to your breed. You are a greedy and wasteful race. No one needs that much Thyme---certainly no man---and without doubt not even your entire colony could possibly burn through it at the rate it has vanished from its rightful place among my other spices.
I wake to see you merrily dancing at the foot of my bed, sliding from the sheets draped over my feet. I kick, but it is all a game to you. And for all the sleep you have cost me these past few dreadful months, I swear I will one day feast on your still beating black hearts mixed into a stew with the last bottle of Thyme I will ever find need to buy.
This is not a warning.