"Rats ... Why did it have to be rats"

 

Indiana Jones famously trembled at the sight of snakes. I, meanwhile, have spent twenty-five years beneath the pavement of this great city, and my true nemesis has always been the rat. Perhaps the damage was done early, after reading far too many James Herbert Rat novels during my commute to work. Mice? Entirely acceptable. Endearing, even. Although, before my subterranean existence, I did spend several years working for a very wealthy and surprisingly pleasant mouse named Mickey, which may have distorted my judgement somewhat.

I'm currently working at [REDACTED] which is experiencing what management would describe as a “minor” rodent issue in the bin room. By “minor,” I mean these things no longer scurry. They lumber. You hear them before you see them, claws scraping through the darkness like something from a forgotten 1980s VHS horror film banned for traumatising children. At this point they are less “rats” and more failed government experiments surviving exclusively on discarded chicken shop scraps and commuter despair. They have even gnawed clean through the heavy-duty plastic bins where we store the rubbish, tearing into them with the relentless fury of Londoners trying to force themselves onto the Central line during rush hour, except these creatures actually succeed.

The other night brought the horror of a direct encounter. One of these furry warlords emerged from the shadows and we locked eyes in complete silence, both trying to determine who truly belonged down there. It was cinematic. It was traumatic. Even the pest control contractor who was with me at the time, a man professionally employed to remain calm in the face of vermin chaos, looked deeply unsettled.

Hopefully the authorities regain control of the station soon, because living in a low-budget remake of Willard is beginning to affect morale. More importantly, it is severely distracting me from properly enjoying the finale of The Boys, which frankly feels like the greater injustice here.