What's Up with Wednesdays? The Cure for a Rat Problem

The Cure for a Rat Problem

So what would you do if you have rats running around your garden? Lay a trap, lace cheese with poison or get a cat maybe. Well, not for my mother as such reactions to a vermin problem are just not good enough; such means just do not have the necessary guts and awe to get the job done. My mother, my darling, sweet mother (she may be reading this), decided to hire a hitman. Yes a military trained assassin; a sniper.

 

This blog really does write itself. There was me on a usual Tuesday evening pulling up at my parents’ place. It looked like it was going to rain but like I said, a pretty usual evening in the UK. I walked in to the house expecting to be greeted by the normal “Hello. How are you? How was your day?” But oh no, not on this day. The house had been tidied to a state of spotless, which suggested that my mother had a visitor.

 

Something was up. The bleachy, hoovered air always makes me think something is up. I went in to the lounge expecting to be greeted by an aunt or a friend of hers. I expected to receive some sort of lecture on life and to have to pretend to listen to it whilst successfully ignoring every word. However, this was not the case. The sight that greeted me was far more terrifying than a busy body nosey parker; it was the sight of a man sitting there with a sniper rifle perched over the arm of the sofa, supported by his left hand with a cup of tea in his right as they both were having a good old chinwag about the meanings of love and life.

 

My initial reaction was of panic. “What have I done so wrong recently that has caused my own mother to put a hit out on me?” I thought to myself. Everything flashed through my mind. The list was long. I had to take a twenty minute shower to put some proper thought in to it. I came back and they still were talking about the trial and tribulations of life as the rifle held a displayed seat. I was fully sure that this was a sales pitch by the assassin to secure the job.

 

I panicked again and left to get a drink from the kitchen. I raked through my brains thinking what I could have done that was so bad to warrant this. I had no idea but I did restore some hope by concluding that whatever it was I probably have a fifty, fifty chance of successfully blaming my brother.

 

I looked out of the window and saw a van. PROKILL it read. My mother deals with no amateurs. It is not her style. None of those camouflaged, dirt painted face, up a tree, silent types of assassin for her. This guy would blend in to any household living room; a cup of tea, a bit of a gossip and a sniper rifle. You would never see him coming.

 

He explains he is not married. I am not surprised as the life of a cold blooded killer must be a lonely one. He says he has children. I ask for their names to make sure that they are completely inscribed in to my mind under the DO NOT DATE list.

 

Then it happens; movement in the suburban Everglades. A rat makes his move for the food that was strategically set for him. The sniper takes aim from the arm chair and with a pull of the trigger the furry critter is ended. His skill shattered, sprays of blood and guts splash on the shrubbery wall as his body bleeds out staining the grass.

 

The morbid death celebrated by humans yet mourned by his rodent family who all retreated to where they came. The humans waited and the rats hid. Little critters you survived another day, well done, but tomorrow the assassin will return with his gun.