Monday, March 22, 2010

I killed a rat with my bike


Killed him, or her, dead.

This was about a year ago, but I just got a new phone, and access to old photos.

I didn't mean to. Riding the waterfront trail, came around a bend, felt a bump and heard a horrified squeak, pained as it was surprised, it all happened so fast.

Rats are everywhere. In my neighborhood we have more rats than registered voters. At night the wobbly tree next to our hovel swarms with them. Looking up into the branches you can see their white bellies against the night sky, like unholy birds cavorting.

Figured what happened and turned around. No blood, just the horrified look of surprise on his face.

Felt bad, really, I didn't mean to kill him. Or her. The rat, about eight inches from nose to ass -- not including tail -- was just going about its night, taking care of business in a flash, doing those things that rats do.

And my 700c mowed him down, broke his back like a soft, rotten branch.

After I felt bad I felt really good. I killed that fucker, like some heartless riding machine, destroying all that crosses its path. A Biblical scourge embodied, a roving wave of death.

I got a taste for it, killing defenseless creatures with my bike. I scared the hell out of a rabbit one night, but I spared his poor little life. I nearly struck two raccoons and once a deer. No shit, I almost hit a deer.

So despite my blood lust, my list of kills remains singular. My neighbor killed a rat, too, on the same trail. She was mainly grossed out, and stuck to 15th Ave after that.

I took a picture like some depraved soldier pornogrifying the swath of his destruction.

I'm a killer, hide your young.

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