Dinner Is Served, Mr Rat.

Last week I decided I'd heard enough from the Rat RaceTrack above my head. Too much frolicking and fun at the expense of a night's sleep. It was unlikely that in the New Regime, the new owners were likely to call Western Exterminator anytime soon. It was time to take action.

After work I went to Anawalt Hardware, and followed the well-beaten path to the Rat Department. Hoisting myself up out of the groove in the concrete, I studied my options.

I was amused at the array of rat devices on sale. There were various kinds of rat-traps, rat poisons, rat catch-devices, rat condos, and rat sonic annoyers that you can plug into the wall sockets. Before I made my final choice, I had to check them out. One was a metal tubular tunnel that presumed Mr or Mrs Dim Rat was going to stroll in, and then stay in, while a light went off outside. You could then take the tunnel, and humanely turn the affected rodent loose somewhere else, probably after making it promise to sin no more. A simpler version was a card the size of a 5x7 postcard, with glue on it, that the rat would presumably stroll onto, and await you. The Sonic Annoyer broadcasts a frequency that is sure to piss off a rat. I'm certain its the identical frequency that makes Kenny G a favorite. All these were well and good if you wanted to make a lifetime project out of faith and redemption.

My aims were darker. I wanted to be the Dr Mengele of Rodentia; mice to the left, rats to the right. I chose a box of Rat Cuisine, in four convenient servings, and left.

Back home, I suited up with long sleeves, respirator, and rubber gloves before climbing the ladder up to the Hantavirus Speedway. Easing aside the trapdoor, my flashlight surveyed a gloomy rodent funzone, black as night. It was a landscape littered with sprung rat-traps, rat turds, one ancient dessicated mouse carcass that look like it took a direct hit from a Sidewinder missile...but no rat carcasses. Evidently the rats had sprung the traps as an after dinner amusement. I was likewise amused.

I could hear the voice of the vanished Western Exterminator guy, counselling as to why you wanted traps instead of poison. Oh yes, they are going to eat this stuff, and go die somewhere. With traps you can retrieve their little bodies and so forth. That presumes the rat takes a complete head shot, and doesn't stagger off somewhere to Rejoin His Maker. In any event, the constant updraft from basement vent to attic assures a steady mummifying environment, in the event a PETA-fied Howard Carter were ever to discover their remains.

Channelling my Inner Carl, I opened 2 boxes of fresh, turquoise-colored Rat Cuisine for my li'l friends. One, in plain sight. The other, tucked behind a beam, so the rodents who wanted to have seconds wouldn't have to be seen and sneered at by their peers for evident gluttony. I took the other two downstairs into the half-basement. One under a heating duct, the other behind abandoned tubing and ducting on the ground just out of sight at eye-level.

Bon Apetit, you little fuckers.


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