Bubble and Squeak!

(Fiction)

 It all began one cold and wet Thursday afternoon. The rain beat down mercilessly on our roof and I pulled my comforter tighter around myself. I was engrossed in the tab I held in my left hand. It was simply marvellous how every fact I ever wanted to know was quite literally at the tips of my fingers. "Tap" "tap" "tap" my index scurried, a master at the task, unveiling pages upon pages of information that would satisfy but never satiate my hunger for more. Who needed human interaction when the screen gave you its undivided attention? Yes, I could do without silly coffee shop gossip and mindless chatter about the weather. God, humans bored me sometimes. "Click" "click" "click" better Google who else thought the same. 

Anyway, I digress. I was quite obviously enjoying the peace and serenity of cyberspace, when it was rudely interrupted by a loud holler from downstairs. I had lived here long enough to know that it came from my brother. The only time he ever hollered was ... never ...he never hollered, so naturally my curiosity was piqued. Putting down my tablet, albeit reluctantly, I zipped down the stairs, skipping two at a time (a talent proudly acquired by the age of 7). 

Turns out, all the hullabaloo was due to a cute little mouse that had found its way into and was snuggled up inside a little blue plastic pail I had outside. You should have seen it. Totally insta-worthy. Its soft brown furry body lay peacefully asleep, as its cute pink squiggly tail curled around it. Its soft little whiskers twitched as if it was having a cute little nightmare. I know what you're thinking; total keeper right?

 Wrong. 

Dad hated rats, and this filthy, disease riddled little sewer rodent, looking for a lazy snooze, certainly wouldn't be an exception.    

A horrendous mental image flashed through my mind. 

Dad had a way of dealing with rats.

First, rather solemnly, he boiled a kettle of water. When it whistled, signalling the end (in many ways), he would slowly arise from the depths of the cushions. His face expressionless, but mouth set in a line that was both grim and triumphant. (How??)

He carried the vessel outside almost ceremoniously and as if administering a cruel but just punishment, he would bathe the offending rat or shrew, effectively scalding them to death. During this unholy baptism at the boil, he always insisted that I witness the victim's “beady little eyes begging for mercy” for a few agonising minutes. Perhaps he harboured the crazy hope that I would morph into a stone cold rodent assassin in the future. Me? Never.

A terrified squeak snapped me back to the present. I glanced down at the very same beady eyes, pleading clemency. No, I decided, with a burst of furious determination. Dad would not get to bless this little guy with scalding showers. Not if I could help it.

I marched into the house to get my all purpose gloves and snapped them on professionally the way I imagined a surgeon or dentist would do. Grabbing a can of mosquito repellent, from the kitchen cabinet, I exited the house. I have no idea what possessed me to think this was a better way to go. I assumed the furball would simply get drowsy and fall into a Forever Slumber. So I shot jets of the product into the bucket willing my four legged friend to get dizzy.

Instead, it seemed to fight to stay awake. Go to sleep, damn it! I thought frantically. It bore its fangs and seemed to spit at me, as if to say “eff you, human scum!” Now this, I did not expect. How dare he? Deeply affronted, I felt my self losing patience. If that’s the way you want to play, we’ll go for a little swim won’t we?

“Bring the hose!” I barked to my brother

My brother, bless his soul, had by that time turned into an unwilling accomplice who gaped in muted horror at the abomination before his eyes. I don’t think he expected me to be capable of such emotion. If I’m being honest, neither did I.  

Aiming the hose into the bucket, I caught sight of my brother fidgeting in clear discomfort, darting glances at the inviting respite of the hall.

“Watch” I commanded, adopting a military tone, not unlike my father's.

As the bucket filled with the cold clear liquid, our fur ball registered this new threat. The more it tried to claw its way out, the further it fell into the deep blue (of the blue bucket). After about 15 minutes, still burning with absurd hatred for this animal, I forced it under with a broomstick. I did this a few times, and only stopped when I recalled scenes of torture from TV that involved dunking a man’s head under water. Only a monster would do that. Me? Never.

But by then, physically exhausted from its frenetic struggles earlier, it soon succumbed and listlessly paddled around before going absolutely still. And with a bubble and a final squeak (see title) , I had sent him to his watery grave. I dropped the hose, turned around and walked inside, leaving my appalled brother to clean up so we could resume life as normal. 

 Dad would have been proud. Okay, maybe not. He would have commented on the highly inefficient proceedings. Throwing away a bucket, wasting insect repellent, and of course a load of water.

Killers are not born, they are made.  

I made the mistake of telling my loony (but hot) girlfriend about it, and she has run off to write a story, and will probably get most of the facts wrong! I’ve got rat’s blood on my hands for life! Time to let off some steam with some Dota.  Peace out!