Now the rats have guns in Assassination City
written by a stoned man. published by actual twats

It creaks. The city bulges - the force of the rodent-tumour growing in its heart is too much for its tired and fragile shell. A shot rings out… but no-one hears it.

Because it's underground.

Farrarrrara the Rat is only the size of an otter, and a rodent, but he oversees a network of foul browns, who sling AKs and Glocks to their otterat mates.

No-one hears their crazy war, but its echoes are clearly visible in the flapping chaos above, as two-hundred startled pigeons swirl to the top of the church architecture.

The cold stone, our pavement, their ceiling, now, after In Bloom's done, sadly floats dying flowers and a few other bad ideas. And now it's now supporting me.

But it's not all bad. Investigating gun-carrying rats the size of otters sells papers. It's amazing what the nationals will print. There was a guy at a weekly parochial I knew who wrote rat stories every fucking week. So my concentration drifts a bit. And I’m staring at the lions - ferocious, threatening statues which howl across the steps of the Council House – trying to keep my gaze unnoticed. It’s been four hours since I finished work, but my mind’s ticking. I gotta get the scoop. The rats. The guns. The headlines. Imagine the 'ad rev' from pest control companies.

There’s no rest in the centre of this distressed mess.

I’m waiting.

I wish the fountains were splurting again. They were always either empty, or full of washing-up liquid, a lavaneous ooze fluffing up the faucets, caressing them like pole-dancers. It's surely a good bath for a massive rat.

Trams glide in, from all angles. They spit hollow bells at blind pedestrians. Lifeless, digitised and sullen, they ping - yes, the passengers pour onto the platforms. And the tram bell rings. It’s like the computer game of Life. Sound effects are the commuters’ salute. The students are back, you know.

I have to turn away.

Again I face the sneering lions. They’re jeering (twice!) at my leering eyes, and, and I can’t fight it. I have to look.

Then the shot clears my thoughts. It’s a miracle no-one was hurt.

Except Granpappy, lying in tiny pieces on the floor, being eaten by pie-eating rats. Some the size of otters.

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