Thursday, October 30, 2008

The Kill

It was a potent mix of some cold blooded planning and a little insanity laced execution. It all happened in front of my eyes, well, ears to be precise. And yes, you don't need to snigger and say "It's one of those I-killed-a-mosquito stories in the garb of drama", because it isn't. I am going to talk about the murder of a rat, a big bad mouse, a bandicoot, a ferocious rodent.

The floor was scaterred with pieces of white, gooey, poisonous balls enticing the rodent for days. Being the smart rat that it was, it deftly gave the Last Supper a miss for days and instead went for my earphones, internet cable and some pieces of chicken from our dinner.

That evening I came back home to find the fat rat on my bedroom floor. But what was strange was that it didn't move. It was nibbling on a piece of the white poison. Step one was over. Now all was left was the kill.

And that's where my roommate and the protagonist of the story enters. The last time a rat was killed in the house he played the role of the mastermind and the dirty job was done by another friend. This time around keeping my sensitive constitution in mind he took up planning, preparing and execution responsibilities upon himself.

Perched upon my bed, with the animal in a corner of the room, he took his position. So did I. Locking him inside, I sat on a sofa in the drawing room, legs folded. I didn't want to know or hear what was going on, so put my fingers to my ears and kept shouting "Dead? Is it dead?" Roommate sent a blood curdling shout in a while "This is too much man!"

The next I saw was an exhausted roommate plonking into the sofa. He had murder written all over him. The look of a first time killer. We went into lengthy discussions about the differences between killings reptiles, insects and a mammals (like the rat just murdered). We sighed. I don't know why I did so. He recapped every moment of the project. How the cricket bat hit the animal's head and how it squealed, but didn't die. And that's when the devil entered the roommate as he now was at the other end of a bloody bat which was pressing down a half dead animal. He shut off his mind and pressed it harder. Another squeal, some squelching of blood and death.

The rest of the story was about sliding the dead animal into a bucket and throwing it into the bushes behind our garden. The roommate never looked back to see where the body fell. We came back to the house to find a tail hanging from the pelmet. Murder, he smiled.
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