Where was I? Oh, yes. The closet.
The problems were too numerous to count. Gene tried to list them off as we sat there, yelling over the sounds of splintering wood and tortured moans. I only listened halfway because I was trying to estimate how long we had before the door would finally give out.
"They're not wrapped that way, either," he said, unconsciously tugging at his hair. "though even if they were, with the previously-mentioned effects from the preservation..."
He just kept going, about geographic restrictions and physics and lord knows what else. I just kept staring at the door bulge. Blasted mummies.
Rather than worrying about all of the reasons that our situation was impossible I focused on what I knew from less credible and more applicable sources. Cartoons, low-budget movies, that sort of thing. Fire was the primary idea that came to mind, but of course we were still in the museum and I don't need to tell you how easily that old pile of kindling would go up with a flaming zombie rubbing against the walls. Before our strategic retreat to the storage closet Gene and I had already tried and ruled out blunt objects, bullets, and a firm denial of the abomination's existence. This didn't seem to leave many options.
I knew that mummies were generally associated with curses, like security systems for tombs. Neither Gene nor myself had been lucky enough to visit any actual Egyptian tombs in recent history, which was just as well since we wouldn't be able to un-enter it in any case. This left the possibility that it was after us for disturbing a particular artifact. Thinking quickly, I shook Gene down and searched him thoroughly - he protested entirely too little for my tastes - and found a wooden model of a boat that was clearly of Egyptian construction. I'll not repeat how or where I located it, and I would request that you not ask.
Well our intention was to simply return the item, but when we attempted to hand it to the desiccated corpse through the hole it had just torn in the door it crushed the boat into a pile of ancient toothpicks. For a moment it froze, then the hand retreated with what was left of the model. The groaning sounds doubled, and then soon stopped. The hole in the door didn't allow for a very good view, so eventually we built up the courage to go back into the hall where we found a twitching pile of wrappings and Egyptian-style beef jerky.
It seemed the mummy, enraged at his own desecration of a royal artifact, had pummeled himself to death.