Don't Bet on it, the Rat-man Always Wins!
Author’s note:
You may remember Guillermo Francese as the fabulous, self-centered, one-dimensional hero from the classic series, Quid Pro Quo, and its poorly written, low-budget pilot, Quid Pro Quo: Jim and Linda’s Crazy Ride.
Quid Pro Quo - https://www.magnumorifice.org/classic-orifice/quid-pro-quo-by-ass-nickleson
Quid Pro Quo Part 2 - https://www.magnumorifice.org/classic-orifice/quid-pro-quo-part-2
Quid Pro Quo Part 3 - https://www.magnumorifice.org/classic-orifice/quid-pro-quo-part-3
Quid Pro Quoi: Jim and Linda’s Crazy Ride - https://www.magnumorifice.org/classic-orifice/quid-pro-quo-jim-and-lindas-crazy-ride
Don't Bet on it, the Rat-man Always Wins!
The sun beamed through the window of Guillermo’s posh Boston townhouse, illuminating the eggshell colored walls. He writhed in violent ambrosia withdrawal for a moment before crashing out of his comically tall bed, through the floorboards, and directly into his highchair. He grabbed a fork in one hand and knife in the other and began bashing them against the table to get the attention of his female manservant. “Gertrude! Where are my breakfast citruses? Gertrude, goddamn you, get in here at once!” Sensing no response, Guillermo burst out of his highchair and absconded towards the maid’s quarters, prepared to deliver swift punishment to his slovenly help. As he paced towards her door, he knocked various vases and sculptures from their niches, orchestrating a violent cacophony of pottery crashing to the floor. “You are going to clean every last speck of this mess! And, on top of that, you will personally rethrow, refire, and reglaze each and everything I have broken.” Guillermo ripped open the door. There was nobody to be found. The stained curtains of the dilapidated servant’s room fluttered in the open window. All her belongings had been removed.
Our hero noticed a small envelope on the bedside table. He gnawed it open with his razor-sharp incisors and unfolded the note.
Dear Guillermo,
You have failed to pay me for five months. I am taking a leave of absence until the funds appear in my account.
Go fuck yourself,
Gertrude
PS: I predict that you will have smashed the vases and statues as per usual, and I refuse to repair them.
Guillermo began thrashing about on the floor, knocking over several bookshelves and causing hairline cracks to form in the windowpanes. He shrieked in frustration. “Not been paid! How dare she!” The tantrum continued for another several minutes before our hero regained his composure. “Hmmm. The sooner I find the money, the sooner I have breakfast… Perhaps I’ll apply for employment!” He paused. Remembering that he had not held a non-illegal job for thirty years, Guillermo took applying for work off the table. “Desperate times call for dastardly measures,” he yodeled, bounding back up the stairs to his bedroom. He whipped open his wardrobe and rummaged through the immense maze of clothing until selecting a seasonally appropriate top. Next, his eyes fell upon the wig shelf. A scandalous blond bob to accent his attitude. He slipped on his favorite pair of rouge flipflop stilettos and tap danced while crab walking out of the door.
Once on the street, Guillermo realized how famished for breakfast he really was. He began pacing in circles while cursing his maid. During the tantrum, a passing ice cream truck caught his eye. He bolted after it as pangs of immense hunger rattled him to the core. The truck screeched to a stop. Guillermo did a little twirl before asking the driver, “do you have mandarins?” The driver looked him in the eye and delivered an affirmative grunt. He selected a gleaming specimen from back of the truck and held it out towards Guillermo. “That will be $5000 please. I take check or PayPal.” The scent of the fruit wafted into our hero’s nostrils, ricocheting off the cilia so violently that he was thrown backwards into a moving streetcar. Salivating, Guillermo dusted off his blouse and strutted back to the window of the truck. “So, I don’t have any money, but I bet I can find another way to reimburse you.” He began sliding down his fishnet stockings and dancing about. The ice cream man sighed and returned to the driver seat, disappearing before Guillermo could even notice.
Guillermo regained his composure and continued skipping down the road. Certain he would not find the solution to his dilemma in the classier parts of Boston, our hero decided to try his luck elsewhere. “T stands for trouble,” he giggled, boarding the train to Southie.
When he arrived at his stop, he delicately rolled up his sleeves and powdered his nose before emerging from the train station. Blending in with the crowds, our hero slipped deeper and deeper into the seedier parts of the city.
Strutting his stuff on the street, Guillermo gathered the attention of several onlookers. “Hey! What’s a classy uptown broad like you doing in a place like this?” Our hero paused before dramatically spinning around to face the person catcalling him. His pupils shrunk to the size of pinheads as he scanned his target. “Catcalling is so 1990s,” he replied with a scoff, “there’s classier ways to address a pretty lady in the streets these days.”
The specimen in question was your standard rat-man. He stood about five foot six and had dirt crusted over his face. Though his eyes twinkled with mischief, the allure was dulled by the foul cloak of rotting rat pelts which formed a hood above his head. The cloak was grey, stitched together with shoestrings, bits of dental floss, and chewed up bubble gum. Flies buzzed in thick clouds around the garment, enveloping the rat-man in an aura of mystery. ‘This guy looks loaded,’ thought Guillermo. He took a step towards the scoundrel and looked him square in the eye. “Rat-man, how do you fancy a wager?” The rat-man took no time to respond: “naturally. But you must know, the rat-man always wins.”
“Well, you see, I found myself in a bit of a dilemma this morn’ when I woke from my slumbers. My help stole away in the night, and I have yet to have breakfast. This unsuspected break in my daily routine has got me in a funk, and I’ve come to the slimy streets of south Boston to find a citrus to satisfy my thirst. Now, it is common knowledge that Rat-men tend to know where to find rotting foods, and all I require is a guide to take me there. I propose a game of sewer dice. If I win, you show me the fruit. Sound fair?”
The rat man started pensively into the distance while simultaneously scratching his matted beard and swatting away flies. “Hmmm. You are not wrong about rat-men having the tendency to know where to find rotting foods. Anyone could deduce such a thing upon observing the moldy bread crusts still stuck between my rotting teeth. However, a wager must have a counter-wager. I’ll agree to your bet on the condition that you cede your fancy outfit to me if I’m to win.”
Guillermo reached out his hand and grasped the rat-man beclawed fingers. The two turned and headed towards the nearest manhole cover. . .
It was a game of sewer dice like any other, but the stakes were high. Each party had something to win. Guillermo stood menacingly across from the Rat-man. He threw the dice into the abyss of the tunnel. “Snakeeyes!” He shrieked and thrashed as a 3 and a 6 sloshed to a stop in the tepid waters at his feet. He began temper-tantruming as tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. He stomped his feet in the sewer sludge and curled his hands into delicate little fists.
“Hand them over,” hissed the rat-man with a deranged look on his face and outstretched claw. Though fuming, our hero acquiesced. He first removed his rouge stiletto flipflops and gingerly placed his bare feet in the sewer water. He shook violently as the body-temperature waste seeped between his toes, totally messing up his nail polish. He flashed a passionate look at the rat-man before sensually removing his blouse, briefly forgetting his rage and enjoying the heat of the moment. The rat-man leaned in for a kiss. Reminded who he was sacrificing his satin top to, Guillermo regained his composure and violently slapped the rat-man across his dirt-crusted face before turning and storming towards the tantalizing manhole cover that got him into this whole situation.
“You know you wanted it!” Heartbroken and confused, the rat-man peeled off his cloak of rat pelts and carefully covered himself with Guillermo’s luxurious outfit. He submerged his old garments in the sludge for a future naked man to happen across it in the depths of the sewers. He scurried into Boston’s underbelly. The sound of his footsteps eventually drowned out by the steady dripping in the tunnels.
Defeated, and stripped down to nothing but his dignity, Guillermo had to plan his escape from the sewer. He stared up at the ajar manhole cover. Beams of light strobed into the darkness as cars drove past overhead. “Keep it together, sister,” he told himself before mounting the slimy ladder to the surface. The squishes of his well-groomed feet colliding with the shit-caked rungs of the ladder echoed throughout the chamber.
Guillermo bounded through the manhole cover and onto the street above. He peeked around to make sure nobody was looking before skipping as fast as he could towards a nearby alleyway. Remembering that he was rich and had access to the kitchen the whole time, Guillermo hailed a taxi home and served himself breakfast.
“Am I breakfast?”