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God of The Rats (standard:Suspense, 1688 words)
Author: Jim LekaksAdded: Feb 06 2003Views/Reads: 2905/1944Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
God of the Rats (1700) is the story of a nameless man who experiences a psychotic break while watching his cat molest a rat. The horror of the moment combined with other common stresses in the man's life overwhelms him, pushing him into a rage of violence

God of The Rats 

Sitting at my desk, looking out through my window, I hear the rain. The
famous sound of rain descending onto a tin roof and overflowing into 
gutters I should have cleaned months ago. This audio tranquillity is 
masking a high pitched  squeaking sound I have been able to ignore- but 
can ignore no longer. Through my window, out on the porch, I stand to 
see my cat molesting a small rat. I stand still, mildly disturbed and 
captured. I am passively frozen by this inextricable mis-match, which 
among other things, dramatizes god's complex sense of humor. I move to 
get a closer look. 

The contest is savage and perverse- just like the cartoons. The rat is
standing on his hind legs and weighs in at under 10 ounces. His little 
arms held up to his long nose like a miniature over weight, out of 
shape boxer in a mohair coat and Groucho glasses. The cat on the other 
hand- must weigh 15 pounds and presents itself like Godzilla over 
Tokyo. Unless the mob has action on the rat, it is going to be an 
absolute slaughter. James "Buster" Douglas vs Richard Simmons type 
stuff. Hopeless and brutal. 

With a spasm of butchery it will never understand and with a mastery of
murder it never questions, the cat bats the rat with a mighty cat 
uppercut- sending the rat somersaulting three feet into the air then 
bouncing on the wooden porch just like you would think a rat would. I 
wince and involuntarily tense up like I was the one pin wheeled. I 
groan through my teeth, and come to realize that the throbbing in my 
temples is from the clenched and battle ready fists which have flowered 
at the end of my arms. 

Face down and flared out on the mat, the cat juggles the rat again,
again, again, again and again finally catching the little man by the 
head in its mouth. The cat then rolls the rat's head into a saber 
toothed front lobby, being ever so careful not to crush it and spoil 
Luau. What in the name of all that is good must the rat be thinking? It 
is too damned disturbing to imagine. I exhale "Jesus H. Christ..." and 
clear the vain curse off the windowpane. 

The trial stays in motion, but takes a twist. Unexpectedly the cat lets
the rat go and retreats several feet away discarding the rat in the 
rain. The shattered wet rat, breathing heavy, can't gather the life or 
the nerve to run. Its tiny black eyes focused on an imaginary piece of 
cheese one-thousand miles away from this- this rat-mare, this horrible 
face off, this rat-tax come due. After several moments the rat 
cautiously rolled his body back over his hind legs and rested. It was 
now ready to spring away from his tormentor but didn't. The rat waited, 
calculating his chances, trying to anticipate cat's next rush. If the 
cat broke right, the rat might break left. If the cat broke left the 
rat might break right. A miserable no good fifty fifty. Life or death 
had become heads or tails. A joke. A mockery. Any hope of escape was 
based on some cosmic strain of great rat luck. I began to tremble. "Who 
is responsible for this?" 

The rat waited. His eyes on his enemy. Just a moment longer- not quite
yet- careful. Just one more instant... 

The flash of the cat's next assault broke the rat's inertia and he leapt
straight up and away to find a better life away from the 15 pound angel 
of death. Hissing, the cat caught the rat in mid-vault by the face and 
swooped it up into the air for the second 3D deliverance of this stormy 
afternoon. The rat hit the porch, bounced once, like a large potato and 
was jacked in the mid-section by a paw of razor sharp claws. 

The rat then brought forth a tremendous squeaking, like he'd been
stepped on or run over by a bicycle. He then went limp and urinated on 
himself thus having or feigning a heart attack- I guessed. Given the 
same circumstance I have no doubt Chuck Yeager would have done the 
same. The cat jumped back and cocked its head blinking, trying to grasp 
this unintentional knock out. The confused cat flip flopped the rat 
around for several testing whirlabouts, then held the rat by the flank 
in its mouth. It was a far-fetched con indeed, only to be tried after 
hiding or running and running and running. 

Except for the cat's nervous tail, we were all perfectly still. 

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