take a rat from Mr. Burgher. Not as a payoff or bribe, but as a fellow rapist, a four-legged companion to join in their group violation of my mouth and throat. They made me hide the grilled rodent under my trench coat, and crawl back into my Smart Car. Then they forced that disgusting burnt meat down into my stomach.
Ever since, I’ve been at my wit’s end. It obviously wasn’t enough to stay out of earshot of my basement. I don’t suppose you Frenchies have any traditional herbal remedies against suicidal pastry mouth molesters? Some kind of Twinkie repellent? No? ’Cause I’ve tried everything. Oh well. Just thought I’d ask.
“Is it a social visit, then?” Rat Boy inquired. “Shall I call the butler? He’ll see you into the drawing room. Or perhaps you’d prefer the library? Truth is I can never remember which is which. There are ever so many rooms. Do be patient, he’ll be along shortly. He does tend to get lost. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
I rested my Laxafier against the man’s shoulder. The tip of the gun disappeared under the folds of loose skin that dangled from his neck. “You’ve got an ear to the sewer. What’s coming down the toilet?”
Rat Boy sighed. He leaned forward, and his massive slabs of skin scraped against the door frame. He wore a faded T-shirt that read, “Fat Boys Turn Me On.” Excessive epidermis erupted from every opening.
“Be my humble guest,” he said. “Mind the hole in the floor, what? It’s ever so tiny, but visitors have been known to stumble. Most unpleasant if you do.”
Green and Erpent managed by great effort to move the door to one side, and I stepped over the threshold. I had never actually been inside Rat Boy’s shack before. A glowing brazier stood to one side. A skewer of half a dozen rats, skin and all, rotated slowly over the coals. Another smell filled the room, mingling with that of burning fur. It took me a moment to identify it. It was poo. No, not poo. Raw sewage. The anal excretions of thousands of food terrists. The undigested waste that drops from their bowels. I followed my nose inside, spellbound.
Green grabbed my elbow. “Careful, partner mine.”
At my feet a deep hole plunged straight down. Squeaking and splashing noises came up from below. I leaned over the edge. At the bottom, rats clambered over one another, playing their little ratty games—like hide and go seek, red rover and pin the tail on the donkey, no doubt—in a river of human excrement.
“What is this?” I asked in breathless wonder.
Rat Boy busied himself with the brazier. “The sewer of our great capital city vomits forth its bounty into the River Potomacncheese. Man’s best friend, a species known in Latin as
rattus rattus,
simply adores the conditions in the pipes far beneath our feet. I fish the shitty subterranean streams with my trusty fishing pole,” —he nodded to where it stood in the corner— “impale them upon my ever-reliable cast iron skewer, and grill them to perfection. Now. About the sauce. With which variety may I tempt your indubitably jaundiced palates?”
“
Yummy sauce!”
my Twinkie chirped,
“Saucy sauce! I want some sauce!”
and began to dance. I crossed my legs to muffle the noise.
“What was that about sauce?” I asked as loudly as I dared.
“Surely you remember my sauces, old boy. I take great pride in having the best rat sauce between here and New York. Today I can offer you a rat-milk béchamel, pigeon liver pâté and a cockroach mousse. The mousse, I must say, is exquisite.”
Erpent had said nothing until now, examining the shack with a look of distaste. At the mention of sauce, he gasped. “You mean you eat the rats?”
“But of course, my dear chap. On what rotating planet around what distant star have you been residing these past three years?” Rat Boy replied. “This is the land of the free and the home of the brave. This is America.”
“The United States of Air,” I corrected.
Erpent flung a trembling