The Rat King
For the past week my roommates and I have heard a scraping, scampering sound coming from our attic. Suspicions range from bird to mouse to squirrel. While probable, these theories lack pizazz and fall bellow our threshold for drama. Instead, we prefer believing out attic is home to a rat king.
Hoping to catch a glimpse of the fabled horror, I climbed the attic stairs armed only with a flashlight. Though energy-efficient and environmentally friendly, the three light-emitting diodes did little to push back the darkness. I know it was watching me. I never saw it, but I knew.
I returned from the attic unharmed but convinced action needed to be taken before it was too late. Someone proposed we call the animal warden. Again, while reasonable, it lacked a certain flair. A friend then suggested I rush the attic with a BB gun and mask (in case I missed and it tried to claw my face off.) That might work on a squirrel. Maybe. But for a rat king, an American Civil War-era cannon and some grapeshot would be more appropriate.
Currently, the rat king and I are at an impasse. If you’ve any ideas, or grapeshot, let me know.