A few weeks ago, my wife and I experienced our first home invasion.

It rattled us.

We had come home from a weekend away to find pots and pans strewn across the floor, food from our pantry covered the counters, and our sense of security in our neighborhood was shattered.

And worst yet, the intruder made it clear how/where he had gotten in and out.

My wife and I grew up in rural areas where our parents never locked our doors.

Hell, where we live now is the same type of town and we often take walks without locking our doors.

I grew up in the South. And though I’ve shrugged off many aspects of my Southern upbringing, like most Southerners, I don’t take kindly to my home invasion.

Did I call the police? Nope.

Did go out and buy a shotgun? Nope, I live in NY and doing so is a pain in the ass.

I did something even smarter. I decided to go all Home Alone on this motherfucker and build booby traps.

So I plugged up the hole our intruder made to get in and out of our home and bought glue traps.

That’s right, our intruder was a rat.

And not an average sized rat.

I saw this particular rat scurrying around the neighborhood a few days before.

And this rat was a behemoth. I swear to God, it was the size of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, with a tail .

Our neighbor told us a few days before the invasion that this same rat had busted into their home.

And I shit you not, my neighbor told me that the rat ATE THROUGH STILL DRYING CONCRETE that they had poured to patch up some issues in their foundation.

How in the hell does a rat NOT die after eating still drying concrete?

Either this rat was a mutated monstrosity left over from a time before humans, or this is one hell of a crazed psychopathic rodent.

None of that mattered now, though. Because I had placed 5 glue traps out to catch the little bastard if he decided to come back.

With the traps placed, I moved on with my life and waited for the possibility of Megarat’s return.

And wouldn’t ya know it, that night, Megarat came back.

Somewhere around 1 am, I heard the sound of a distant screech. I thought it was a part of a dream.

Except, it sounded like it was coming from the kitchen.

Then it disappeared. And for a few moments, I heard nothing but silence.

So I laid back down to continue my slumber.

The next morning, that same screech came roaring back into my ears. And I knew that what I’d thought had been a dream, had actually been the screams of this rat in the night.

So I left my room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Megarat was staring at me. He was the size of Manhattan, screeching with the ear-splitting veracity of a Banshee in Mass Effect 3.

So I inched closer; half his paws were on the sticky pad, and the other were dangling off.

He shuffled his feet which caused the pad to move and screeched. It startled me, and I jumped back.

As I landed, I was overcome with a sense of purpose.

Like Leonidas defending Greece, I had trapped my intruder….

…and it was time to strike.

95% of the time, I’m a mellow kind of guy. But again, as a Southern-bred American, I don’t take kindly to thieves and intruders.

Protecting my home wasn’t just an option — it was an obligation.

There was still a small problem: this gargantuan rat was still a danger.

Because he could still move, he was able to shuffle his hind legs enough to move the sticky pad around.

So if I tried to grab the pad with him on it, there was — or at least I theorized — a chance he could bite me.

What if this fucker had the plague? God, taken out by a 15th-century disease?

How humiliating.

Looking around the room, I had two options: a broom and a garbage can.

I decided the best way to handle this was to place the garbage can on the ground, and then “sweep” the sticky pad into the trash can.

That would protect me from getting my hands caught in Megarat’s jaws.

Once he was in the bag, I figured I’d waltz outside, toss him in the trash, and let him writhe in a plastic bag, screaming at the top of his lungs.

But something about that felt wrong.

Plus, I was still pissed he had invaded my home.

Then a devilish smirk unraveled across my face.

Oh, this rat was not going to die in a trash can. No, he would die for for his transgressions of invading my home.

Now, I could go into gruesome detail here. But I won’t.

Let’s just say that I used the power of Mjolnir and brought down upon him righteous indignation.

(I may have also yelled, “THIS IS SPARTA!” as I did it.)

Why do I tell you this story?

Because it’s funny.

And I thought why not regale this tale to my readers.

I also tell it as a cautionary tale to any would be rat intruder who may also have the ability to read on the Internet.

If you or your friends decide to come up in my house, I will show you no mercy.

I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my home. And they will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon them.

Suck it, rats.