Hank's Tuesday began like most winter days. His bladder had rudely woken him and bullied the warm covers from his body. It was 4:06, which meant that after he peed, he'd have a little over an hour to lie in bed and think about shit until the alarm went off. In the dark, Hank trudged the few familiar steps to the bathroom, not bothering to switch on the light.
As he pulled his gym shorts down, he felt something brush against the inside of his left leg. It felt like a piece of laundry had been stuck inside his shorts and fallen out. The hell was that? Hank wondered.
The answer was prompt. It wasn't too dark for his aging eyes to register the five-inch rat scurrying along the bathroom floor, frantically searching for escape. Hank's thoughts materialized in the following order:
1) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!
2) Oh my God. Is that one of those toilet rats? I think it might be. What are the chances?
3) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!
4) I need to get that rat.
Hank flicked on the bathroom light just in time to see it skittering out of the bathroom, its little rat claws clickety clacking on the tile. A right turn would've given the beast access to the entire house, but for whatever reason, the gods of rodential home invasion smiled upon Hank that cold January morn. The little bastard juked left and into the spare bedroom.
Quickly and as quietly as possible, Hank chased the creature further into the bedroom, then turned on the light and closed the door behind him. Silence. It has to be under there, Hank thought. He lowered himself into the throw rug and peered under the bed, discerning the silhouette of the small mammal perched all the way back where the walls came together.
Hanks's thoughts materialized in the following order:
1) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!
3) Should I trap it? How? With a f*&ing Tupperware bowl? I'm not going to do that. I think I need to kill it. Shit. But how do I kill it? With a stick, that's how! Yeah, get a big stick and kill it!
4) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!
Hank left the bedroom, closing the door and half sure that the rat wouldn't be going anywhere unless provoked. The broom closet didn't offer much in the way rodent-destroying weaponry, but there was a ratty, girthy, plastic broom that hung on the wall. Hank and Stephanie had owned it for ages. It had a higher calling now. He grabbed it.
Hank dashed back to the bedroom, confident that a couple of good whacks would slow the vermin down enough to finish it off. He poked under the bed, bristle end first. It wasn't working. Every time the mangy little bitch ass punk came out into the open, he'd be out of position to bring the hammer down. Each fruitless swipe against the hardwoods would splinter off jagged shards of broom plastic along the floor.
"Hank?" Stephanie was outside the bedroom door. "What are you doing?"
Shit. He had to tell her now. "There's a rat in here."
"Are you f*&ing kidding me?"
"No."
"Oh my god."
"It was on the toilet when I went in there. I think it might be one of those toilet rats."
"That's disgusting."
"I know. It's trapped under the bed. I'm trying to get it out from under there so I can hit it with this broom. But it's not working."
"Do you need my help?" said Stephanie, her voice shaking. Hank knew it was a question she really, really didn't want to ask.
"I think so," he said. "Can you grab something to poke at it when it's in the corner under the bed? Then I can be ready for it when it runs out."
"Okay." Hank heard Stephanie's footsteps making their way to the broom closet. A few seconds later, she opened the bedroom door, gripping a metal dust mop handle with both hands. "I'll get up on the bed and poke at it with this," she said.
"Okay," Hank said.
"But before that, we should put our shoes on."
"Good call," said Hank. "Definitely a shoe occasion." He grabbed his running shoes and laced them onto his bare feet, deciding for whatever reason that socks weren't called for when the game was Whack-a-Rat®.
Stephanie stepped onto the bed and positioned herself near the head and against the corner. Without panic or wasted motion, she worked the stick behind the bed, poking and prodding at the shit squirrel. Time and again, the rat dashed onto the open bedroom floor, the broom narrowly missing its target with each swing. One swipe did land solidly, resulting in a satisfying, dog toy-like squeak from Rat Fink.
Finally, like a calf that's lassoed and roped with perfect timing, the little f*7cker came darting out to Hank's right, allowing Hank to slam down the bristle end over its body and press down. The thing was trapped, the only proof of life being its curly tail flailing outside the confines of the broom head. Hank held steady pressure, not letting up until the tail stopped moving, and then some. It was done.
"I'll get the shovel," he said.
As Hank made his way to the tool shed, feelings of both repulsion and exhilaration washed over him. He and Stephanie had done this together. What would have happened if that thing had disappeared into the house? How would they have slept then? Closing his eyes, he summoned the spirits of his Neanderthal ancestors with gratitude. How different are we, really? Hank thought.
Then he remembered that he wore shoes when he hunted and also wouldn't end up eating the rat like they probably would.
He returned to the house and scooped up the carcass, flicking it unceremoniously into the ravine behind the backyard. When he came back inside, Stephanie was still in the spare bedroom. They looked at each other, then hugged. There wasn't a lot to say. It would be a while before the day picked up for each of them, but it eventually did.
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