The Samurai

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A grim tale about a man and a rat.

Submitted: April 23, 2013

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Submitted: April 23, 2013

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THE SAMURAI

by C.S. Perry

 

A shriek. Footsteps in the hall. A knock at the door.

“Steve?”

“What?”

“There's a rat in the kitchen.”

He sighs wearily, opens his eyes.

“Hang on”.

Steve sits up on his mattress. Grey light struggles through yellow curtains. He's already dressed.

He bends forward, plucks half a joint from the ashtray, lights it with a plastic disposable.

Thinks: I can't deal with this shit.

At the door: Lindsey, flatmate. Growing out of acne scars, but pretty. Threadbare blue gown and fluffy slippers.

“Rat?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Shit.”

Steve slouches down the hall, opens the kitchen door. The kitchen's bad, daytime television bad. Unwashed plate stacks, beer cans, fork stuck in solidified Pot Noodle. In the corner by the fridge: rat, caught in trap.

“Shit.”

It's big. Size of a big kitten, small puppy. Not as cute. It's hurt. The trap's crushed half its face. The rat, trembling, looking up at Steve with its remaining bulging eye. The trap was baited with poison. The rat's eaten it. It's should be dead. It's not.

At his shoulder: Lindsey.

“What do we do?”

Shrugs. He'd rather go back to bed and wait. She's pretty.

“I suppose we have to kill it.”

He hands her the joint, looks round the kitchen.

Thinks: How the fuck do you kill a rat?

Thinks: A poisoned rat trap.

“Have we got, like, a broom?”

“A broom?”

“Yeah, something to hit it with.”

“Matt's got a sword.”

He does, the moron.

Matt's room: spartan pleasure dome. Free weights, sports socks, framed Ferrari poster, condom wrappers. Leaning next to the wardrobe: a decorative katana. Stainless steel blade, resin grip set with simulated gemstones. A pointless piece of overpriced crap.

Steve picks up the sword. He gives it a little flourish, feels oddly manly, then a bit stupid. Returns to the kitchen.

The rat hasn't moved. Hardly surprising.

Steve steps forward cautiously, uncertain how to proceed. An overhead swing seems unnecessary, and there's not enough room. He considers running it through with the sharp end, but he doubts his technical proficiency.

Finally he grips the hilt with both hands and raises the blade to waist height. Pauses, finds his centre, brings it down in a sharp chopping motion.

The rat darts away, trailing blood. Neither dead nor actually trapped.

Thinks: For fuck sake.

He whacks at it again, misses. The third swing lands squarely on its back, crushing rather than cutting, definitely killing.

“Fuck yeah.”

Elated, then a bit pathetic. Rat guts oozing on the dirty kitchen floor. It doesn't look so big now.

“Thanks, Steve.”

“No worries.”

Steve takes kills on the joint, buries the body in the yard. Lindsey mops the floor. He watches her through the kitchen window. It's never going to happen.


© Copyright 2018 csperry. All rights reserved.

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