Side Bet Sequel
Side Bet Sequel: The Rat
The rat sat, his poorly-postured belly slouching lower and closer to the ground, as he crammed kilogram after kilogram of biscuits into his whiskered yawning mouth. It had barely been three days since the man had been taken from the island. Three days since the rat had begun his feast of the uncountable kilograms of sea biscuits the man had left him on the island. On the island, where above the expanse of sky shone as greedily blue and maliciously amused as the man’s eyes had. Yet two days since the rat had become aware of the distasteful bug.
It was then that he had heard the scarce scuttle of its hairy feet and turned to see the thing standing triumphantly atop the castle of biscuits. There it was. The cockroach. Its beady black stare gazing at the rat’s biscuits baking in the unyielding sun blazing boldly across the sky.
The same sun that left the rat no choice but to plead for escape from his sun burnt panting throat and raw eyes, in his dark, dank, damp crevice in the mass of rocky island. The rat of course did not have any hope of rescue. The island just a fragment of rock floating in the North Atlantic Ocean, left no chance except for mere coincidences of those who could not sail and who would float too near to the island. Even then how would any sailor let a stinking 100 pound rat onto their vessel? The rat knew he might as well be dead already.
But he was not alone. Make no mistake he the rat and the roach were not friends. No, and they never would be. For, when the boat had come and taken the man, the rat had thought himself the lone stranded survivor. Yet, without even the slightest of agility or cunning mastered by the rat to guide itself at all, the cockroach had taken the rat’s food and half of his crevice. Perhaps the thing had burrowed into the stash of biscuits biting down and thrown off the boat and onto the rat’s island. Either way it infuriated the rat.
So that was how on one fine sunny day the rat found himself
The rat sat, his poorly-postured belly slouching lower and closer to the ground, as he crammed kilogram after kilogram of biscuits into his whiskered yawning mouth. It had barely been three days since the man had been taken from the island. Three days since the rat had begun his feast of the uncountable kilograms of sea biscuits the man had left him on the island. On the island, where above the expanse of sky shone as greedily blue and maliciously amused as the man’s eyes had. Yet two days since the rat had become aware of the distasteful bug.
It was then that he had heard the scarce scuttle of its hairy feet and turned to see the thing standing triumphantly atop the castle of biscuits. There it was. The cockroach. Its beady black stare gazing at the rat’s biscuits baking in the unyielding sun blazing boldly across the sky.
The same sun that left the rat no choice but to plead for escape from his sun burnt panting throat and raw eyes, in his dark, dank, damp crevice in the mass of rocky island. The rat of course did not have any hope of rescue. The island just a fragment of rock floating in the North Atlantic Ocean, left no chance except for mere coincidences of those who could not sail and who would float too near to the island. Even then how would any sailor let a stinking 100 pound rat onto their vessel? The rat knew he might as well be dead already.
But he was not alone. Make no mistake he the rat and the roach were not friends. No, and they never would be. For, when the boat had come and taken the man, the rat had thought himself the lone stranded survivor. Yet, without even the slightest of agility or cunning mastered by the rat to guide itself at all, the cockroach had taken the rat’s food and half of his crevice. Perhaps the thing had burrowed into the stash of biscuits biting down and thrown off the boat and onto the rat’s island. Either way it infuriated the rat.
So that was how on one fine sunny day the rat found himself