Everything's about tiny men nowadays...

Max stopped cleaning, and looked up at me.
 "What're we going to do with all the Smurf bits?"
I looked at the small pile he'd made. Sure, we could probably dispose of the dead mice easily enough: If anyone asked too many questions, we could pretend to be mice exterminators, I suppose. We could even buy fake moustaches, overalls and a painted truck, if things got out of hand. But Smurf parts, on the other hand, we probably not binnable. And I don't think we can put them in the recycling either...
 Gathering the pieces up, I headed into the house to find an envelope. With any luck, the Internet will soon yield me James Cameron's home address... I'm not entirely sure what brought this on...

Mice, mice everywhere, and not a drop to drink...

The Mice were back. I'd found them this morning, milling around in my basement. They seemed to have upgraded their weaponry since the last time, and some were wearing adorable little camouflage costumes.
 "Sup?" I asked the leader casually.
 "My friend!" He replied, "We became disillusioned with the rebellion. We are now soldiers of fortune!"
I'll admit, the leader's dialogue was somewhat clunky and expositional. On the other hand, he was doing very well for a mouse. He was leaning against the wall now, in camo fatigues, and holding a cigarette.
 Oh, I told him. Secretly though, I was beginning to plot ways I could use an army of mice... After all, I have a lot of enemies. And some friends as well... Ooh, I'd make them pay...

 Anyway, the Smurfs were back. They too were milling around, in the garden. They'd cut some branches, and started to set up for a siege. Tiny smurf engineers had begun work on tiny catapults and battering rams. I'd tried to negotiate with them, but to no avail. Similarly, my bribes of catfood had been unsuccessful. I offered them one last chance to leave, then set the mice on them.
 The garden's a blood mess. Mice guts are spread across the path. Tiny blue arms are stuck up trees, little white hats are piled sadly beside my rosebush. Max arrived earlier, and since this was his fault, I sent him to work with a leaf blower, cleaning the place up.

"Don't open the door!"

"Just... Leave it!"
 For me, not wanting to open the door was a familiar sentiment. Today, however, it was Max voicing the command. He'd arrived at mine, looking rather flushed, about 5 minutes ago. He'd rushed in, drawn the curtains and tried to hide behind the fridge. Yanking him out, I'd placed him in a chair and asked him what was going on. Before he could answer, the ominous door had knocked, taking us neatly back to the start of our story.
 "Why? What've you done?"
 "Oh, don't ask. Just... Well, do you have an escape tunnel?"
I did, but I wasn't going to tell Max. I might need it one day, to escape him.
 "No," I replied. "You destroyed them all last year, when you pretended to be a Dwarfish miner in my backyard."
 By now, my cat-like curiosity had kicked in, and I was attempting to peer out, through the kitchen curtains. At first, I couldn't see anyone outside. But, looking down, I noticed my callers: Smurfs!
 A large, yet tiny, mob of Smurfs had gathered by the front door. Bearing pitchforks and burning torches, they were obviously pissed about something.
 "Seriously Max, what have you done now?"
Max, head in his hands, refused to answer. I watched the Smurfs: After a few minutes, they began to mill around, their anger replaced by boredom. A few more minutes passed, and the mob turned to leave as one. On the way out, they stopped long enough to tip over a gnome.
 Max, still at the table, refused to answer why the Smurf mob were after his blood, except to mutter occasionaly, "But they looked so tasty..."
 I expect they'll be back tomorrow. But I'm not worried, I've set the sprinkler system up in the garden. That ought to see them off...