Contorted from eight hours in a Volga and reeking of assfat, I arrived home from my forced march across the regions last night. All I wanted was a little cherry juice spiked with Moscowskaya.
I opened the front door to find a dead rat lying in the hall.
Too some degree, I was relieved. I knew the City Rat Master had been by earlier that day to strategically lay some Rat Smack. A rat carcass was better than dog carcasses.
I was also relieved to see that, while it was a rat of considerable girth, it wasn't as big as I expected.
However, I was deeply disturbed at the prospect at removing it. The Producer acted all brave over the phone, insisting that if I would only stop wailing and wait 15 minutes, he'd be home to deal with it.
I summoned the courtyard kids and one of the braver ones disposed of it. Thus, I am forced to rescind the title of Rat Master,