Contributor: Andrew Ross
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Love is like Ratkiller. I came up with this idea a few months ago. I found rat droppings in my house and I could hear this rat running around in the walls and across the floor and shit when I was sleeping. So I bought some of those rat cages, those supposedly animal-friendly fuckers that poison the rat to death. I placed those cages all over the motherfucking house. I spent three days finding cupboards, closets, whole fucking crawl spaces I’d never even seen before—shit not even on the fucking blueprints—just so I’d be sure if this motherfucking rat was going to run around my house, then this motherfucking rat was going to run into a cage. You know what I’m saying? So I placed the cages carefully—commando style—and waited. I heard noises in the walls. The next day nothing. And I’m like, that’s right bitch. Don’t even try to fuck with me.
Except then, the third day, I hear running in the walls. This motherfucking rat wouldn’t die. This motherfucking rat was the baddest motherfucking rat of all bad motherfucking rats. He knew it, I knew it. So, I got my keys, started the car and started driving around the streets till I find a stray cat. I plop that raggedy ball of raggedy fur on the front seat and I grab it by the throat. I drive home with one hand on the wheel holding this scraggly furball with the other.
And I tell it, Listen I have this big bad motherfucking rat in my house. And I want you to kill it and eat it. Then I say, I don’t want to be friends. I’m using you for what I want and you’re getting what you need. But this rat is all you get. I don’t feed you, I don’t keep you. Just so we’re crystal clear on the nature of our relationship, I’m going to call you Ratkiller. Because that’s all you are to me.
And then I stopped at my house, threw Ratkiller inside and locked the door. Two days later I came home, opened the door, grabbed Ratkiller by the throat, threw her out, shut the door. Never seen rat or Ratkiller since.
Everyone knows his or her role in advance. No expectations. No one gets hurt.
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I am a graduate of the Fiction Writing graduate program at Johns Hopkins. I've published stories in Penn-Union and The Medulla Review, where my story "A Breaking Up" was anthologized. My original play "The Rebel" was produced and performed at the Avalon Theater in Easton, MD.
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Love is like Ratkiller. I came up with this idea a few months ago. I found rat droppings in my house and I could hear this rat running around in the walls and across the floor and shit when I was sleeping. So I bought some of those rat cages, those supposedly animal-friendly fuckers that poison the rat to death. I placed those cages all over the motherfucking house. I spent three days finding cupboards, closets, whole fucking crawl spaces I’d never even seen before—shit not even on the fucking blueprints—just so I’d be sure if this motherfucking rat was going to run around my house, then this motherfucking rat was going to run into a cage. You know what I’m saying? So I placed the cages carefully—commando style—and waited. I heard noises in the walls. The next day nothing. And I’m like, that’s right bitch. Don’t even try to fuck with me.
Except then, the third day, I hear running in the walls. This motherfucking rat wouldn’t die. This motherfucking rat was the baddest motherfucking rat of all bad motherfucking rats. He knew it, I knew it. So, I got my keys, started the car and started driving around the streets till I find a stray cat. I plop that raggedy ball of raggedy fur on the front seat and I grab it by the throat. I drive home with one hand on the wheel holding this scraggly furball with the other.
And I tell it, Listen I have this big bad motherfucking rat in my house. And I want you to kill it and eat it. Then I say, I don’t want to be friends. I’m using you for what I want and you’re getting what you need. But this rat is all you get. I don’t feed you, I don’t keep you. Just so we’re crystal clear on the nature of our relationship, I’m going to call you Ratkiller. Because that’s all you are to me.
And then I stopped at my house, threw Ratkiller inside and locked the door. Two days later I came home, opened the door, grabbed Ratkiller by the throat, threw her out, shut the door. Never seen rat or Ratkiller since.
Everyone knows his or her role in advance. No expectations. No one gets hurt.
- - -
I am a graduate of the Fiction Writing graduate program at Johns Hopkins. I've published stories in Penn-Union and The Medulla Review, where my story "A Breaking Up" was anthologized. My original play "The Rebel" was produced and performed at the Avalon Theater in Easton, MD.
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Author:
Andrew Ross
