It was a battle royale, a grueling, tempestuous affair that tested me to my uttermost limits.
But I won.
I killed that stinking bat.
With a pillow.
It was a wild, brutal affair against a nimble, fast moving foe.
Again and again and again I swung my foam-filled Excalibur, knocking the beast down twice but twice he rose again to rejoin me in fierce aerial combat. Swooping and soaring from kitchen to dining room and back again. Mocking me as he evaded a dazzling blizzard of death dealing fabric.
Yea, he rose again twice, but not thrice and I was able to end him. First a series of devastating pillow jabs, thrusts and blows artfully delivered, then a dining room chair leg for the coup de grace and he was done. No flaming Viking vessel accompanied him to Valhalla; his journey across the River Styx was guided by Moen - the porcelain ferryman.
I fought all alone, abandoned ... my wife having fled the field of honor in terror and locking herself in the bathroom.
Still, I emerged victorious.
My arm is killing me.