Vermin

  A one simply and humbly benamed  Bob walked down his stairs to the basement of a very old home. Every single one of his joints popped and cracked. The hamper he held betwixt his weary, tremulous arms was brimming with week-old laundry. "Sonofabitch...ma-my back," he muttered with clenched teeth. He inadvertently took a whiff of his sullied clothes. He smelt the mixture of accumulated stains, activities, sweat, and parties from yester and yore.
   He made his way down the flight of stairs with the hamper in tow. He set it by the washer machine. He turned the dials this way and that accordingly. Yes yes, Bob was a half-smart fellow. He knew what would sap the dirt out of dirty clothes. Hurrohhhh! He put a cup of detergent in the drink, and sat atop the drier, waiting for the machine to fill up. He flexed his toes, his legs, and took deep inhalations. The popping and cracking was no better. He wondered what he had done to warrant this bodily dysfunction at his young age. He cursed and muttered to himself until - diiing! The washer was full. He hopped off the drier and systematically put the larger articles of clothing in first. He followed up with smaller ones.
  As he went through the motions, he saw a large black silhouette scurry and squeak its way passed him across the floor. He saw this fell beast out of the corner of his periphery. He wasn't sure yet. He asked one or two questions aloud to corroborate his suspicion. "A rat!? A buck-toothed bastard? Wait, now I'm talkin' to myself? Am I asking myself this? Sheeit!"
  He reached for a loose, stray two-by-for by the drier. Hmm, the ubiquitous old piece of wood. There's at least one or two in every basement. They just sit there suggestively and interminably. He raised it high ready to bring it down forcefully, swiftly, accurately, and effectually over the rat's ass. The rat eluded him. He saw nothing but the tail disappearing into a friendly alcove in the wall.  These old abodes afforded him no peace of mind. He knew that the years had not only gathered decay but had simultaneously made way for peculiar excavations. Yes, many tunnels had been cleverly dug and routed by rodentia or genus Rattus - God help us all.  He was sweating, still holding the two-by-four high over his head, his eyes turning fiercely like pivot guns.
  He put his weapon at his side. This wasn't a sound method of approach to defeat the rat, a clever but base invention of Satan . He finished the load, closed the lid, and put his hamper on top. He made his way back up the jinky flight of stairs. He festinated to the kitchen and got a loaf of feta cheese out of the refrigerator. The malodor was key when inducing the attraction and affection of genus Rattus. He fetched American Spycho from his book shelf and held at his side. It was a bible with a god in this occasion. He flipped the pages to the chapter where Patrick Bateman is accosted by a gay liberal,
accompanied by a noisome cutesy whisp of a kanine doomed to the hightened masculinity of more self-respecting fellows. Bob harbored no prejudice, but could admire the engine of thought introduced by such a wanton and beautifully bloodthirsty passage.
  Excusing what Batemen did to the other fellow, as one thing led to another he eventually came down on the dog's forelegs with his hard-soled shoe. Bob would perhaps repeat this savagery in some way or simply fancied the idea as it coincided so well with the occasion. He put the smelly block of feta on a dish and carried it with him to the basment. He took the book as well. After all it was his bible. He set the feta by the alcove and sat on top of the drier next to the thumping and moaning of the washer machine. He read his favorite passage from the book. His eyes drifted periodically to the alcove. He read and he waited. He grew tired but was still poised in the heat of the moment, the raw anticipation. His eyes grew heavy and would've fallen asleep if his instincts didn't have have the better of him. His eyes drifted to the alcove once more. They widened with bloodlust as he saw a nose poking out, sniffing the irresistible block of feta. He slowly reached for the two-by-four. Be leery, Bob, and no sudden movements!
   The whole ten- inch body of the rat appeared ready to sieze the cheese! Bob raised the two-by-four and jumped off the drier! "I'll killlll youuu! I'm gonna killll youu! Damn your soul!  The rat's eyes were stark red filling with Bob's total eclipse. Genus Rattus was ready to retreat back to the alcove. Too late! Bob blocked its path with the two-by-four, stepping hard on its tail. It was all ashriek like a thousand screaming voices in the infernal underworld. It was ready bite down on his foot. "Youuuu sonofabitch!" Bob made quick adjustments. He lifted his foot off the disabled rat and came back down over it's head. "Die, die, die, youuuu bastard!" He could hear the semi-wet crunching of the rat's head underneath his superior foot. "Hahahaha!" Bob rejoiced. "The will of Man is mightier than thou art. Hahahahah!"
   The rat twitched and writhed momentarily and finally passed. Bob said a prayer and sat back down on the drier. He finished the passage and closed the book. He sighed wiping the sweat of his head. He would make a speedy disposal of the deceased before rigor mortis could set in.
   He went back up the stairs to fetch gloves and a trash bag. His shoe might need to be cleansed or better - burned at the stake to settle his mind. As he made his way back down to the basement there was something that most disordered his mind. There were at least five or ten rats where once there was only one. "Jesus H. Christ, help me," Bob screamed at the top of his lungs. They were swarming around the cheese and even eating at their dead friend. "Jesus, you dirty cannibal bastards! I'll kill you all! Hahahaha!

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  Bob sat atop the drier with a separate plate of victory cheese. The load of laundry was going gracefully into the second cycle. He poured himself a bit of wine. Ahhh, such a beholden refection was this. He rested one hand on the book and eyed the two-by-four covered with bits of wiry fur and gore. Before him was a heap of dead Rattus Genus. Mind you Bob harbored no prejudice against small creatures, but vermin was inexcusable. Bob smiled to himself, giggled, cackled, and guffawed for he was the bigger rat after all.