Owed To a Rat

06/04/2012

Dearest Sir to whom I’m indebted,

Though my course of actions were justified to the fullest moral extent – regardless their merit in the court of law – I feel it (as does our settlement agreement) an absolute necessity to apologize for my actions. Before you proceed to the bank with the reparations of Seven Hundred and Fifty Two dollars and Twenty Three cents for the “brutal and heinous mutilation,” of your highly esteemed rat (enclosed in the form of a check herein), I ask that you allow me the opportunity to entreat you to my recollections of the event in question, in hopes to gain your understanding and sympathy for that ever so apocalyptic day.

When my party of eleven arrived in an angel white stretch limousine at the evening hour of seven to your establishment, there was a great bulging of eyes (often associated by medical practitioners as a symptom of Quasielastic Shock). Of course some of this bulging of eyes could have stemmed from a bit of intoxication and inebriation, but I assure you I was neither (if you recall the police report stated my blood alcohol level was at a .01, which despite the laws of science I insist was the unfortunate result of timing. Just prior to the analysis you see, I had one of those mouth refreshing Listerine strips. I assure you). Regardless, the faces of my companions could have been carved from Play Dough, for each of their ears was split from cheek to cheek with the sharpest, happiest and most enthusiastic of smiles. Our angelic stretch limousine became a tool of legend, garnered from the depths of H. G. Wells’s mind, for it brought us to Past’s door. Where better after all to host a surprise 21st birthday party than the place where “A kid can be a kid?”

Let me assure you, that our five hundred and sixty two dollars and fourteen cents were well spent. The entertainment of your facility is enough to drive any child wild, and being but over–grown children, your facility drove us into a frenzy – matched only by the feeding habits of the omnivorous Amazonian piranha. After my party ascertained much satiation from the exotic and exquisite Italian fast food and fruit punch, along with the vast array of token ridding ticket games; it was deemed time for your entertainment’s finale. And, since such a finale is a spectacle only the gods of the many heavens – and hells – ought to behold, we mere mortals eagerly fell upon our designated table (the report’s statement that we fell upon the five year old’s table is ludicrous) with much haste and monk like reverence.

It was during this finale that your mascot approached our table and during the – once innocent – happy birthday song took a most active interest in the possessor of my adoration. I can safely say her – my possessor’s – curves fall in all the right places; and this facet led the rat’s eyes to become fixed first upon her countenance and more importantly upon her other-worldly assets. I humbly, at the time, let such warranted attentions pass my notice. I myself have been a slave to her beauty for many a committed year. Yet, when the vile rodent’s paw moved towards her derriere, and once there remained to assess its worth; I cannot say I sat idle for much longer. A call to arms was placed before me. Though the enchantress of my adulations gave the gesture a most heartfelt and sincere sounding laugh, there was something your cameras failed to notice, a mountain of dishonor carefully sheathed in her voice. There was a fiery volcano in her emerald eyes, which upon countenancing her assailant became jaded. Being the sole witness to this affront, I stole from my seat and demanded the rat apologize for the ill placement of his paw. He clearly admitted his fault by stating (and I quote), “She knows she enjoyed it.”

I have never heard such ill fodder – or such a poor pick up line – as this from any man, mind you one in a rat costume, in my score years of existence. In an attempt to restore my lady’s honor, I took to aggressive action. Using the ever cliché One Two, which I learned from Will Smith’s performance in Ali, I began to pummel the perverted rodent into road kill. My time as a rodent exterminator was short lived however, as two of the rat’s body guards appeared, Pirate Pete – he looked to be a Pete – and some juiced up Pink Bunny.

Chuckee’s (the rat’s) two cronies opted to engage in the brawl instead of dissipating it; and quickly I found my arms restrained by the both of them. With a loud cry your rat, a bottom feeder of the evolutionary ladder, began to place blow after blow upon my weakening abdomen until my constitution gave way, and I was on my knees. Hollers and shrieks ran out from the nearby crowd of children, most cheering their idol, others – the supposed adults in the crowd – chanting in practiced unison the name of another psychotic homicidal mouse (Jerry). Those henchmen who were not costumed for battle held the crowd back and mercilessly watched as I was now publicly being flogged by the venomous Rat and his fuzz barbed tail.

Gathering what strength remained in the remnants of my shattered self-esteem and body, I made my move to stand. Ironically, I gripped the two stooges who held me in place, as pillaric support and rose on shaking knees. All this effort waned, so I could spit a mass of regurgitated fruit punch upon the rat’s fake plastic eye (causing the stain you so fervently demanded I pay for). My defiance of the Children Entertainment Franchise King did not end there however. With the swiftness of two charging Pumas– I know it isn’t humble to admit this but even you acknowledged the ferocity captured by the security camera in your deposition – I stepped back and swung my captors towards each other. With my two captor’s dazed, and Chuckee awe-struck, I threw a vengeful punch towards Pirate Pete.

Dear Sir, it was not my will to decapitate the pirate, but rather the will of the universe – upon which the fundamentals of quantum theory state I hold no control. Much like a chicken in this state, the decapitated body of Pirate Pete began to run in circles. Unsightly as this was, the headless swashbuckler ignorant to the psychological trauma he was inflicting upon the children, began bellowing for 9–1–1 to be called. It was only then that I truly “cackled” for the first time that night – my previous, other supposed, “cackles,” as your lawyer called it, were simply grunts of pain.

In all of the commotion caused by Pete – you’re not much of a pirate without a head or hat I suppose – I had lost track of the Pink Bunny, who was now vigorously hopping towards the nearest phone. Chuckee, began to vehemently curse my existence – ignoring and semblance of dignity – and swore upon his pity worthy grandmother’s grave that he would make me regret the day my mother laid eyes upon my father. I am not quite sure why I lifted a nearby chair and threw it at the Pink Bunny, or why I rattled off some inane put-down regarding Chuckee’s mother’s ignorance of Tiger Woods and the geographical nomenclature of India; I just did. Of course, I needn’t have wasted breath to announce the latter, for considering Chuckee is a human–rat his mother couldn’t have been that smart to begin with. In either case, Chuckee took the affront so harshly that he rushed at me yet again. In his rage, he was most careless, and I was able to do to his head what I had just done to Pete’s. Stepping atop Chuckee’s fallen head, I smiled at his floundering body. In retrospect, this probably wasn’t the best position to be in when the cops arrived.

Since I am not allowed to perpetuate the idea that I am right (Although my lawyer did confide I am perfectly capable of feeling the like), I must apologize. So, I am sorry.

With enough sincerity to fill the seven seas twice,

Kanak M G