Fat Rat

One cold evening, as the last of the sun’s rays cast over the cobblestone streets, a homeless man approached the concierge of a fine local hotel in the middle of the busiest street in the city.

“Excuse me sir,” said the vagrant, “My name is John, and I understand that tonight will be a cold one. I have no place to sleep, sir, and nothing to eat. Is there any kindness to spare?”

The concierge looked at him distastefully, “Nothing to spare for those who won’t work for it, vagrant.”

“Oh, I will work for it, sir. Even for the smallest kindness. I haven’t eaten in days and I doubt I’ll survive the night, sir.”

The concierge looked at him for a very long time, and his demeanor shifted. He groaned and motioned him to go behind the hotel. John wasted no time; he scrambled down the side alleys behind the hotel. A door opened and the concierge motioned him in with his hand. Immediately, the heat of the interior warmed him, and he suddenly felt safe. That didn’t last, however, as the concierge opened a creaky metal door leading to a spiral staircase leading down to the basement, and he waved a reluctant hand down.

“You can stay in the basement boiler room. It’s warm, and there’s a bed in the corner. This is a fine establishment. We cannot have vagrants roaming the halls during the day, so you can only come upstairs at night.”

“What is the problem?” John inquired softly.

“Rats, simply put. They’re everywhere, and it’s affecting the guests. Can’t have them seeing rats running about. You must kill them yourself and dispose of the bodies without the guests seeing you. So long as you kill rats and stay out of the way, you can stay here. For every dead rodent you collect, I’ll provide you with food. But you can only work after midnight, and until the sun rises. Earn your keep, and you’ll get kept,” the concierge excused himself and climbed the staircase again.

John laid down on his bed and felt warmth for the first time in weeks. He slept peacefully.

A few hours passed, and the clocktower rang out twelve times, and the painful ache in his stomach set him to work. He quietly began walking the corridors, inspecting the kitchen, examining the vacant rooms. Unsurprisingly, he found all the marks of rodents: droppings, gnaw marks on the baseboards and doors, the occasional scurrying of something out of the corner of his eye.

Slowly he worked the night away, placing pellets in corners and under furniture, loading mousetraps with cheese. Nearly an hour before sunrise, the first mousetrap that he placed had found its first victim.

When he approached the mousetrap, the rat caught in its snares was still meagerly alive, squeaking in intense pain and terror. John felt an immense weight of guilt at the sight of the injured animal.

The concierge was less than impressed, “Clearly, I said I would give you food for every DEAD rodent you brought me. Evidently you have not completed that job.”

John swallowed hard and looked painfully at the tortured beast. Finally, and with great trepidation, John brought his booted foot down on the rodent. John ate his meal in silence, alone, and with a heavy heart.

His stomach was full, but it ached with regret for the poor twitching beast he put an end to. In his basement, he noticed something large and imposing staring at him from atop the wine barrel near the bed.

“What’s going on, chief?” It was a rat the size of a beagle, gargantuan in size and devastatingly obese.

“You…,” John stammered, “...You’re a…”

“A fat rat, yeah. THE Fat Rat, in fact. That’s my name,” Fat Rat twitched his whiskers into something that resembled a smile. He sat up on his hind legs and let his weight balance on his mountainous stomach. “We gotta talk, chief. My people, they come to me. They tell me things. They tell me that you killed Catnip.”

“Catnip?”

“He was one of my cousins. Don’t worry. I’m not too cheesed about it. I have a few hundred cousins, and Catnip wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“I’m sorry. I feel awful.”

“I’m afraid Catnip won’t be the last. Am I right? You’ve put out poisons, traps…”

“I have to. I’m dying out there on the streets. I need shelter, warmth. I need food, and I only get it by doing this job. I must… kill you… so that I don’t die. I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm,” Fat Rat scratched his whiskers, “So, what you’re saying is… you’re a rat, too?”

“I’m sorry…?” John was confused.

“What do you think we’re doing, Chief? We need warmth, so we come in here. We need food, so we scrounge. We’re dying out there in the streets too, so we come in here to survive. How’re you any better than us?”

John considered the question, and the only answer he found was, “Because I’m a man?”

Fat Rat laughed, “Look, Chief, I’ve seen a lot of men do a lot of rat-like things. We’re not so different. Anyways, I think we can come to an agreement that will give us both what we need.” Fat Rat smiled.

From that moment on, Fat Rat convinced his army of cousins to stay away from the public areas of the hotel during daylight hours and to only scrounge for food during the night. During the day, the rats would stay by the warmth of the boiler room with John. John removed the poison and the traps, and he never killed a rat again. The rat problem disappeared, so John was allowed to stay in the hotel. And though he never had a carcass to turn in for a meal, every morning, a plate of cheeses and scrounged food made its way to John, a gift from the fattest of rats.