Larry’s friends are merciless when to comes to his preferred game, wild mice.

“Yeah, they call me Mouseman but I don’t care. There is nothing like a freshly roasted mouse with some ketchup. Plus it takes a shitload more skill to peg a tiny mouse rustling under some leaves than blasting a giant deer from a tree stand.”

Larry is proud of his hunting prowess but he does tend to get a little defensive about it. I asked him what’s so hard about annihilating a tiny mouse with a shotgun.

He got a little guffy and explained that his mouse gun uses modified 20 gauge shells that he packs himself.

“I only put four pellets in my shells. You really have to understand and anticipate the trajectory of those pellets to hit anything and I never miss.”

I must have looked sceptical, so he quickly demonstrated his skill by shooting a single hole in a specific leaf on a tree over 50 yards away. Needless to say, I was impressed. But why mice?

“I can nail about 20–30 mice on a good day and then I roast ’em and enjoy ‘em.”

I told him I had never heard of roasted mouse. It seemed pretty stupid to me but Larry explained if you do it just right you’ll be hooked. He said it is actually pretty simple, but you have to do it right.

“The first thing you do is broil them just enough to singe their fur so you can simple brush it off. Once you’ve removed all the fur you marinate them overnight in some beef blood mixed with a little red, white and blue vinegar. The next day you roast them for four hours at 200 degrees. It’s the slow roasting that makes it work.”

Mouse bones are very small and when slow roasted become crispy which he says adds a wonderful light crunch.

I must have gotten that skeptical look again so he rushed back to his truck to bring me a sample wrapped in aluminum foil.

“They are much better right out of the oven, but they ain’t bad cold. Give it a try.”

I unwrapped the roasted mouse and was a little taken back. It looked like a dead, bald mouse. Larry quickly squeezed some ketchup on it and encouraged me to just pop it in my mouth and enjoy.

I figured he wasn’t lying about his shooting prowess and decided to trust him on this one, so I closed my eyes, picked up the roasted mouse by it’s roasted tail and took a huge bite.

It was fucking awful and I threw up all over his boots.

It was embarrassing.

Fortunately, I had a jar of compost whiskey in my pocket to wash out my mouth, settle my stomach and clean off his boots. I had an extra jar in my car and gave it to him as a way of apologizing.

Don’t eat mice. They taste like crap.

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