What Rambo Did

Right, okay, I waited overnight, like violetfu suggested. I don't think it tasted my blood... just all of my beer and most of my chocolate biscuits, from the crumbs I saw on my dash to the loo earlier.

So, now starving, I set out through what had, literally overnight, become a jungle. Rurounigochan, I did try Googling a solution. All I got was a load of botanical societies, who were sod all use, and a load of clips from 'little shop of horrors. Seriously useless.

I decided, whatever. It's either going to eat me, try to reason with me, or leave me to starve in that cupboard. So I e-mailed my mum, wrote out my last will and testament (in which I leave everything to my mate Rob down the road, who owns a market stall and could get rid of my stuff dead quick), and bravely stepped out into the hallway.

I was expecting a mass confrontation. I held my disinfectant like a grenade - I was Custer, making his last stand. I was that bloke out of Saving Private Ryan, the one who sacrifices himself for all the rest. I held myself like a hero, and boldly stepped into my living room, ready to face the demon head on, like a man.

Do you know what he was doing? Not engaging in battle with the poor sod he'd robbed blind and half-starved; not preparing himself for the end; not even plotting world domination, that was for sure.

No, actually, the bastard was sat on my sofa, drinking a Heineken from my fridge and watching a David Attenborough program about the life-cycle of something vaguely botanical, with an air of smug self satisfaction.

So I brandished my disinfactant, I turned to face him head on, and I shouted something to the effect of 'Get off my property you no good, two-bit son of a pond algae!' (oh yes, I went there. I took GCSE Biology, I know about pond scum)

Only, I don't think it sounded so Clint Eastwood when I said it.

And he turned his huge, plant/flower/demon face to me, and saw the disinfectant. Or maybe he just saw my I-mean-business face, and decided to call it quits. At any rate, he held up a vine, and produced from god-knows-where a slightly moss-covered packet of crisps and another can of beer. He even made room on the sofa, although there's soil between the cushions now.

Living arrangements have yet to be settled. And I'm so going down to Homebase first thing tomorrow morning and stocking up on weed-killer. You know, just as insurance against Leafy McGee (which is what he shall now forever be known as).

Thanks for all the help, guys!

- (no longer in the) broomcloset11