“Hey what’s with the blue shit? Like this is Breaking Bad, or what?”
I look around the yard.
“Hey. Asshole. The blue stuff. ”
I look around the yard, and on the top ledge of the fence is a rat.
“The blue stuff is poison,” I say.
“Bravo, Ms. Researcher. I know it’s poison. Asshole. I’m calling you an asshole because I know you’re the one who put it there. Get rid of it.”
“Capable George put it there. And I already called him to come take it away.”
“Well my fifth wife and my step-kid literally had heart attacks because of the stuff. Because of you, asshole,” and the rat advanced along the ledge and added, “If you wanted us to leave, you could have just cleaned out the bamboo. Lazy fucker. You terrible, lazy, polluting motherfucker, you should know better. ”
“You’re the gutter rat?”
“I’m the Norwegian Rat, asshole. And I have a name.”
“You have a name.”
This much snaps into focus: my new acquaintance has a keen understanding of the house, its layout, its nooks and crannies, and he knows me in a way that I do not know him. This little vouyer, fabricating a false closeness with his object of interest. He already has the advantage in this conversation.
“You have a name?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Melo. Melo Muridae.”
*****
Current Sh*t 