The Malcontent Pseudo Pharma InterAstral Rattus Rattus that Subdued the Suburban Disillusioned Dude

This fictitious short story is dedicated to the jazz art angel Sun Râ. “Nature doesn’t repeat itself…why should I repeat myself?”

The thin grey figure stood eight feet tall, walking down the sidewalk during an amber sunrise she called out to the vinyl sided newly built residences, “Doomed! You are all doomed! This world is doomed that’s what I say!”

Her silvery metallic dress waved like a comets tail: dramatically, slowly against a backdrop of stars on the horizon.

A balding man with a severe quantity of buttons on his collared shirt and a severe quantity of pleats on his pressed pants, stopped from his early morning ritual of spraying Round Up herbicide on any weed that dare crop its’ ugly head among his pure homogeneity of lawn grass. He rubbed the tumors on his hands together and watched as the thin grey figure approached him. He said to her from across the street, “I heard your doom and gloom strange space creature, I don’t adhere to your doom and gloom approach to life. I am for life!” He said as he continued to spray poison onto a wild plantain plant and dripped some of the commercial elixir onto the crotch of his pants. “I believe in freedom!” He exclaimed as he examined the space creature hitherto. “I vote!”

The creature was not from another planet, or astral plane, but was in fact, a discarded genetically engineered lab rat for Viagra pills and stood erect because in fact, that was the only way she could stand. Her whiskers tingled with excitement at the pleats in this suburbanites’ pants. She crossed the street and approached the firmly dressed man. “Do you know everything sir?”

The tightly buttoned man responded, “Mostly yes, mostly, everything here on earth is easy to define, it’s black and white like my tie and my skin. Are things easy to understand on your planet? Where do you come from? What is the name of your planet?”

The rat creature knew explaining the misgivings of this mans prejudgment were futile, so instead decided to play along. “I come from the planet Pfizer, it is far, far away and everyone there is rich and happy. Everyone there looks out for one another, and for you too sir.”

With that the pleated pants wearing man scratched his freshly shaved chin, “From planet Fy-sir you say? The people on planet Fy-sir are looking out for me you say? How so?”

Unwittingly the man wiped his nose and with it a nearly lethal dose of Round Up entered his blood stream. His eyes twitched wildly and his heart palpitated to which the man chalked the extra beats up to the seven little chocolate donuts he ate earlier.

The Rat Woman leaned over and whispered in his ear, “We stand to gain from your good health. We listen for your needs and fill them with just the right amount of ..um…sugar.” This mutated female version of Rattus Rattus delighted in her harmonious path choice and discernment.

“Ooo they have sugar on Fy-sir? I love it! I put four scoops in every cup of coffee I drink. Can I come to your planet? My wife left me you see, and now all I have left is this perfect house and lawn to care for…”

With that declaration Rat Woman looked closer at the lawn, which looked as though it had been manicured with a flea comb. There were three bushes, all trimmed down to a few sparse leaves like a landscapers Brazilian bikini wax. There was one sickly, spindly box elder tree, surrounded by a seven inch tall, black plastic guard fence. Within the fence, surrounding the tortured arbor was a thin pile of glinting white quartz stones that glimmered antiseptically in the morning sunrise light. As Rat Woman looked closer at the lawn, in between the single species of grass blades, she saw hundreds of thousands of day-glow colored beads of what smelled like reprocessed Homo Sapiens Sapiens feces that had been marinated in raw petroleum ammonium and micro-waved and had prayers said to it for some sort of pension for the non-Union workers that bore welts and tumors fabricating it from their own waste.

“Sure you can come to Fy-sir my friend, do you have a combustion engine capable of burning fossil fuels inefficiently?” The Rat Woman waved her ratty hair back from her eyes seductively the way Rat Women do.

Pleated Pants Man cocked his head to the right and rested his hands akimbo at his side, “Do I have a combust-a-who-whatsa?”

Rat Woman replied gingerly, “A car, do you own a car?”

“Oh yes I do! Well, cars are for women, I own several gigantic Yukons and one Escalade. My leaders paid me extra to buy these a few years ago, to help further along the warming of planet Earth. An associate of mine said our leaders’ hearts are cold, so they need a lot of heat and profit to keep them warm. You should ride in my Yukon, I have killed dozens of squirrels with it, and that neighbors’ dog down the street. I told her to have it debarked, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Stupendous”, replied Rat Woman, “I should like to ride in this Yukon, and it sounds capital! We can go to Fy-sir with it, if you like.”

With that Pleated Pants Man ran back into the house to retrieve the keys to his red Yukon. The middle aged man literally and cerebrally skipped back to his new, as-of-yet formally un-introduced friend whom he felt he could trust as much as a multinational corporation. He waved to Rat Woman and as suavely as he could muster he clicked his garage door opener. With a ZZZTTT!!! And a BZZZZRRRRRR! And a WAWAWA! The four-car garage opened like the mouth of a monstrous, gloss-white lacquer finished robotic hippopotamus.

Rat Woman walked towards the passenger side but Pleated Pants Man intercepted her, “Allow me!” He bellowed and accidentally let out a Round Up infused fart. “Pardon, Spanish Omelet this morning…” He then proceeded to open the door of the red Yukon for his new favorite girl. The slender genetically engineered product of wanton profit slithered into the opulence-mobile and gleefully inspected the leather interior and dangling, purple fuzzy dice and matching purple ladies’ garter hanging like a contemporary hunters’ trophy from Pleated Pants Man’s rear view mirror.

He jumped in the vehicle and admired what he thought was the pink, bare fleshly leg of Rat Woman but was in fact a patch of her tail that she had rubbed Nair upon vigorously every morning before eating her strict diet of processed cheese. “You have very handsome gams if I may say so my dear.” Pleated Pants Man blushed unabashedly.

“Thank you thank you, you have some very fine dark hair on your head.” Rat Woman said sarcastically though unbeknownst to him.

He admitted, “Well the truth is I dye it black. It’s actually naturally red and grey but the color has been coming out along with the hair itself these last few years. A friend of mine said eating lots of red meat was supposed to help it along and I eat lots of that, but so far no improvement.”

With that gesture the engine of the enormous oil-war burner roared to life. The smell of carbon particulates and excess petroleum filled the air. He hit the gas, and the charging beast clambered out of its’ steely den, as it careened down the road, Pleated Pants Man carefully swerved the sports utilization machine directly in the path of a black squirrels path crushing it under tires of natural and artificial rubber. “Thirteen!” he laughed. The two characters, held hands as they drove off to planet Fy-sir, which to him he felt would certainly be some kind of quickly butchered red meat paradise and to her certainly it was that, only with cages upon cages of Homo Sapiens Sapiens trickling down it’s own hazard virulently upon themselves.