Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
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Monday, November 14, 2005

Addiction Fiction Part Three



Torrents of rabid rodents overtook me. They didn't pause to notice the latest obstacle before them was moving in the same direction, was breathing, or that it was covered in fecal war paint. They didn't notice, that is, until I freaked out and tried to swipe them off my body.

The effort was futile. For every crimson eyed turd factory I knocked away, seven clawed onto me, using my clothing, hair, and skin for purchase. Rats have claws. Little claws, but claws nonetheless. They slipped through my skin and hooked around capillaries, tugging them out, speckling me with blood welts.

I thought I'd freaked out when they first reached me. As their numbers swelled, I lost my composure even further. I abandoned my quest to leave the tunnel, and to remove them from my blood speckled body, choosing instead to attack as many rodents as possible. I tore one from me and squeezed it until its entrails exploded from its anus. I screamed with feral joy. I smashed another against the concrete, collapsing its fragile skull. It sounded like an egg cracking. I bit another that had the gall to traipse across my lips. It rewarded me with a high quiet tiny little scream. I spat him out and laughed. I have to admit, I was enjoying myself.

I always thought rats were cutthroat vagabond pirates. You know, mammalian mercenaries, with no allegiance to each other. Every rat for itself. Cut granny's throat for a stale anchovy. Mean little bastards.

As it turns out, there exists within rat society the concepts of solidarity, teamwork, and perhaps even love. Maybe it's just some sort of genetic preservation instinct. I don't know. What I can tell you with certainty is this: when threatened, they can and will ally together. In unison they'll assault the threat upon their peers' safety.

That's what they did. They stopped fleeing the rising tide of brackish sewage to nibble me to death. Smart little fuckers went straight for my eyes. Sadly, the thin little membranes known as lids offered little protection from their needletip incisors. I managed to swat them off for a few moments, but once they found their way into my poopy pants, all I could do was whip my head to and fro to protect my eyes. My hands were busy with more important matters: I thrust them into my shorts in an effort to save my flaccid penis and my tender testicles. I was in trouble.

What can I say? They got me. They got me good. Sure, I took a few with me, but that's hardly a consolation. Killing a few rats isn't exactly much to brag about in the afterlife. Like, say, genocide, war crimes, or engineering biological weapons. No trumpeted fanfare awaited me, nor any army of tortured souls crooning with glee at my arrival, all victims fallen at my hands.

Oh yeah, the concrete tunnel. And the rats. Well, there isn't much left to tell about that. Once I lost my eyesight, I know there was a lot of flailing, wailing, and convulsing. Bleeding, too. They took crumb sized pieces of me, one morsel at a time, I suppose, until I died or the stormwater rose too high for them and they were washed away. Hell, maybe the water killed me instead of the rats. I can't say for sure. It's all a blur, and then darkness. The last thing I smelled was shit. I wish it was cocaine. I wonder if they found that.

To be continued. (Yes, really.)
7:25 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm

6 Comments:

November 14, 2005 8:39 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Okay, kids. I'll have your votes, please. True, I'll probably ignore them all, but vote anyways. It's your civic duty.

What avenue should this story take next?

1. Adventures Of A Bloated Corpse
2. Marauding Rats On Cocaine
3. Steve In The Afterlife
4. Other (Please Specify)

 
November 15, 2005 1:05 AM, Blogger Lostinspace said...

Your "fecal war paint" description was fabulous.

My vote is on "Maruading Rats on Cocaine," because we really can't get enough of that.

Hey, are you publishing this elsewhere besides your blog? It's like a generous plate of creativity that should be served to the masses.

 
November 15, 2005 6:48 AM, Anonymous red said...

i like the "adventures of a bloated corpse" idea. However, there could've been some radio-active shit in the sewer, that mixed with the nose candy, and made Steve a Zombie King of the Sewer-Rat World.

 
November 15, 2005 2:29 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

LiS, Nope, not really. I went on a submission spree back in August, landed two short stories, and stopped after that. I'm not really in the mood to seek pub right now. I'm just trying to write.

 
November 16, 2005 10:13 AM, Blogger Kerouaced said...

Is this an anti-drug story? Does Nancy Regean come and kill the rats like Rambo?

 
November 16, 2005 12:34 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

Steve, that's an excellent idea. I could have Nancy with the red headband and Barbara with a pearl lasso (or whip) fighting off hordes of rodents.

Nope, not an anti-drug story. I don't moralize. Shit just happens in my tale tellings.

I love cocaine, but I never buy $150 worth. Little baggies here and there, and not too often.

 

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