Murderous Rock Star

Well, today I had another of many firsts in this country. Our two neighbors (and dear friends) informed me that they had finally captured the R.O.U.S. that had been making his home in their apartment for weeks. (I'm assuming that you know what an R.O.U.S. is. In the unlikely event that you don't remember, I'll go ahead and refresh your memory. It's a Rodent of Unusual Size a la The Princess Bride). In any case, I stopped over to their place for another reason--though it's not as if I have to have one. I make up reasons to hang out.

It was then that I saw the upside down bucket in the kitchen. L informed me that the thing was under the bucket and that there was really no good way to get him out of the house. Naturally, I asked if they could slide something underneath the bucket to act as a lid. Then, I told her, I'd take the bucket outside and throw the I-truly-don't-know-what out into the jungle.

L and C mentioned that the thing was in a metal cage under the bucket, and that they couldn't bring themselves to touch any of it. Well, I'm no hero, but I have done many a frightening thing in my day, as a mother and all. I told them that I'd take the bucket off of the R.O.U.S., kill him, and throw him out if they really wanted me to.

They wanted me to.

I asked them how they wanted the hit to go down. They said they preferred drowning--in the bucket, inside the metal cage. Ugh. It had to be done. I had already promised and my reputation was at stake.

I carefully lifted the bucket off the, er, victim...and, y'all, he was vile. He wasn't a mouse or a rat--at least not the kind I've ever seen or had nightmares about. His nose looked like it was forked, kind-of, and had been shoved in a pencil sharpener. His eyes were the beadiest little nothings, and I wasn't even sure he could see. His teeth were disproportionately large and curved. And, well, I hated him--immediately.

His hideousness didn't remove the guilt I felt at what I was about to do, but it helped me to repress it a bit. L filled the bucket with water, and I gingerly lifted the metal cage, scared stiff all the while that the thing was going to lunge at my fingers and bite me. He didn't, and I plopped him wordlessly into the water, and to his rather ugly death.

I'm just strange enough that I had to peek in on him once or twice, to the shrill protests of both L and C. (What can I say? I also stare at roadkill as I pass it, shivering all the while). Anyway, he was drowning and I felt a stab of deep revulsion and a fleeting moment of sorrow and regret as I glimpsed at him. But L and C were infinitely glad and disgusted and yelling all at once, so it distracted me.

After five long minutes, I looked at him once more, in earnest this time. He was dead--and bloated--and baring his teeth.* (insert involuntary convulsion)* I dolefully put on red gloves, picked up the bucket, and hauled it outside, being careful that no rodent water splashed on my sandaled feet.

I threw that thing--cage and all--into the leafy overgrowth on the other side of the road. L and C cheered and shivered and called me a rock star. I guess that's what I am today. A murderous rock star. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?