Rat Bastards

Let me paint a picture for you.

A man waits in the passenger seat of a silver Jimmy in front of Walgreens, his cigarette aching to be extinguished. His unkempt brown hair and oversize sunglasses issues a metro sexual tag that is reminiscent of any cast member of "The Hills" or maybe an Olsen twin as a man. Another gentleman exits the store and moves quickly across the parking lot with a single plastic bag filled with red and beige squares. The second man looks surprisingly similar to the smoking fem in the Jimmy; his hair a mess and glasses large enough to act as a windshield for those walking to his immediate left or right. Jumping into the vehicle and speeding away, the flip flop wearing, hackie sack playing, Abercrombie and Finch buying preppies sit in silence with shit eating grins plastered across their faces listening to Offspring as loud as the remaining, unblown speaker would go.

As they approach the house their hearts begin to beat faster; their hands begin to sweat; glances are exchanged that share the giddiness and pure joy that is going to be the future 15 minutes. The Jimmy comes to a halt three houses down from the target. A final deep inhale with an equally dramatic exhale shared by the two men confirms that it is time to put hours of planning into effect. They exit the vehicle leaving the doors ajar in order to minimize the production of unnecessary sound which may give away their arrival. Leaving the doors slightly open would also create a more complication-free escape. The sound of the plastic bag rustling in his hand, the second man suppresses the sound by stuffing it under his home made Atmosphere tee while rushing to the side entrance of the garage of a blue and white house. Both men duck while running, looking from side to side for any enemy that may hinder their advancement. The door is unlocked, jackpot. They slip inside and though it is barely 9am, the light from outside has overexposed their pupils and upon entering the dark garage both men stop and stand motionless, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the pitch black room. Like re-finding your seat in a movie theater after reluctantly leaving to take a piss, the two walk with their hands in front of them through the darkness while tripping over boxes, bicycles, and city supplied recycling containers. After taking an abnormally long time to get from the exterior door to the interior entrance, which totaled an astonishing 17 feet, the men quietly open the door to what turned out to be a laundry room filled with cats and slip inside. Though it may sound strange, I would prefer a room filled with dogs than a room filled with cats; dogs are pack oriented and learn from one another whereas cats are independently incompetent and will continue to meow and rub on you whether you smell like cat nip or month old sour milk.

The two men move slowly and quietly from the laundry room to the living room where a sleeping body keeps a sofa from escaping. The television blasts infomercials on a channel which, as of 11pm last night, was more than likely an adult oriented animated cartoon involving either a talking dog, a talking fish, or a talking robot. The men move to the front of the sofa and unflinchingly reach into the Walgreen’s bag for their version of a WMD. The men take a moment to re-learn the art of setting a mouse trap, because let’s face it, unless you work in an office building and the janitor is on strike, or you live in a house that needs a thorough cleaning, not many people use mouse traps on a daily basis. After solving the riddle of setting the hinge, two traps are slipped inside the shoes resting next to the sofa and four more are placed gently on the soft cushions around the body. The men move quickly from the living room to the kitchen where 15 more traps are set unobtrusively in locations most likely to be used over the next month or so. By the looks of it, the dish rack to the right of the basin would have been the most logical place to set a trap as it seemed like the last time dishes were washed in the home was the morning after the Last Supper. With the kitchen laced, the remaining 45 traps were set throughout the house: the tub inside the shower curtain, inside shoes, behind alarm clocks, in bathroom drawers next to the tooth paste, inside personal mini fridges; no place was off limits. The two men slipped out of the house and back to the Jimmy just as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. The job was done. Offspring returned to intensify the joy of the mission’s success.

THE NEXT DAY
If you have never been to someone’s house, it can be a daunting task trying to get the address right. In the heat of mischievous division one can overlook certain elements of a plan that generally deem themselves “unoverlookable”. Getting an address right is definitely one of those things that seems so incredibly basic that there is no way one can screw it up; unless that person is in the middle of an Offspring and excitement induced blackout on the way to set mouse traps all over his buddy’s new house. Excitement could not be contained as the two men approached their friend the day after the attack. Hoping he would be completely destroyed by the plethora of mouse traps strewn about the house, the two men could barely hold back fits of intense hysteria while confessing to the masterful plan. When the victim was sincere in explaining that his house had no such aftermath and that he had conveniently woken up that morning and taken a “mouse trap free” shower and shave, the two assailants couldn’t believe what they were hearing. There was absolutely no way their target could bluff this well and there wasn’t a scratch on him. There was, however 4 police cars and an ambulance that showed up at 412 Ridge Drive that morning, and being that “lucky non-victim” Ricky Masty lived at 414 Ridge Drive, he was able to give a detailed account of a man covered in red marks and bandaged hands telling the police that he “had no idea what kind of maniac would do such a thing”. Woops.