Hi there, Rocky Rat here. I'm standing here at your graduation ceremony at Animal High School, to give you some sage advice for your futures. As you know from the fine introduction Principal Oliver Owl just gave you, I've made a success of my life by working my way up to being the only Rat detective in the venerable Chicago Police Department.
I did it by dint of hard work, that and not taking any short cuts to success. When you leave here, you will find a lot of temptation. Out in the real world, you have to make choices; often difficult choices. You'll also find that, if you stray from the straight and narrow, you might find the path that you do choose twisting around and biting you in the butt.
Let me tell you a story, a story about a classmate of mine in this same school. His name was Roland Ratski. Roland was a studious hardworking student. He was shy in school, never dating, always studying, and had his future planned — or so he thought.
Roland Rat had a friend, a human friend. The friend was named Colum. He was from around the world in Australia. While Roland was a shy introvert, his friend was outgoing and brash. They met when Colum moved into an apartment on the other side of Roland's.
Now Roland was moderately wealthy, with an inheritance from the death of an aunt. He was educated and on his way up in the world. Definitely on the right path in life. But then his friend had a plan. To further that plan, he needed Roland's money.
One night, on my way to the detective squad room — I had to ask a convicted chipmunk about signing his confession. That task brought me to Animal Jail, in the basement of One Police Plaza, Police Headquarters.
Imagine my surprise when I saw Roland Ratski in a cage. I had thought that if anyone had a charmed life, it would be Roland.
“Uh, hi, Rocky,” he said to me, looking embarrassed in a white-striped prison uniform.
“What the hell you doing here, Roland?” I answered, shocked by his condition. Roland, I remember him as a chubby little rat, was mostly skin and bones, “What happened? Maybe I can help.”
“I — I — I kinda got in a little trouble, Rocky.”
“What kind of trouble, Roland,” I asked, “embezzlement, jaywalking, bigamy?” I didn't think it could be anything violent.
“Well, they say multiple-murder, gun-running, smuggling, assault with a deadly weapon, genocide, and a little rape.”
“Say what?” I must have almost passed out, as I felt dizzy and had to clutch the bars standing between us.
“Oh, and I forgot, piracy too,” he told me.
How could he have changed that much in only a couple of years?
Well, when I finally had time, I went down to talk to Roland. I still couldn't believe it, even after reading the police file on him and the court records of his arraignment. We met in one of the animal interrogation rooms.
“Now, Roland, why don't you tell me all about it? How did you get in this position? It just doesn't sound like you.” I sat back and lit a smoke, while he told me this story….
***
“Roland, old buddy,” Colum asked me, over some vodka highballs in his living room, “how would you like to be a very rich rat?”
“I guess so, Col, but I already have enough money to finish college and engineering school now. I don't want to do anything illegal.”
“Of course not, Roland, old friend. This is only a little investment thing. See, I was studying firearms on the Internet, and I found out a loophole, perfectly legal, to make a mint on buying and selling guns.”
It seems, he told me, that the firearms companies are anxious to get customers. That it helps their investors, and keeps many people and rats employed. So if they bought guns, it would help a lot of people and animals, like his uncle who owned stock in the Coltish Firearms Company. Colum said he had asked his uncle questions as part of research for a story. Now Roland had never touched a gun in his life, only seen them in movies and on television. After all, most of them are far to heavy for a rat to fire.
The uncle said it was hard for a person to get what they called an “End User Certificate,” which was basically a promise to the government not to sell to various organizations or countries. However, the uncle admitted, the rules said nothing about a rat even needing one of those things. See, a loophole in the regulations?
“You know me, Rocky,” Roland told me. “I'm not very good at arguing. He talked me into it. With my inheritance money and what we could beg, borrow, or steal, we ended up with his apartment filled to the ceiling with: pistols, revolvers, rifles, rockets, and machine guns, along with ammunition for them all.” Well, let's let Roland himself tell the rest of the story….
We went to a lawyer, me riding in his coat pocket, to find out the pitfalls. The lawyer told us that sooner or later, when the government found out about the sales, they would step in to stop us.
But, and it's a big but, an investigation will take at least six months. Then we'd go to court and be subject to a $10,000 dollar fine, if found guilty. It would be much less if they couldn't prove we sold to the wrong people. Even after that, we could hold the proceedings off for years by paying that lawyer to handle the case. While all that was going on, we could still be buying and selling as usual.
Take away all the fines and lawyer's fees, and we could still end up millionaires by the time it was all settled. New laws against rats buying firearms would also have to be passed, with us lobbying to slow them down. Hell, Rocky, according to the lawyer, we could both die of old age before being actually stopped.
So there we were, a million dollars worth of ordnance in his apartment, counting the artillery pieces chained up out back. We got them from competing arms companies for ten-cents down on the dollar. Now we had to sell them, which was easier said than done, in order to finish paying the arms companies and make a profit.
To begin with, we needed State Department permission to move them by ship — but not by minivan. So we took our time, him driving, to take them to a rented warehouse in Canada. We'd load his van for each trip, with an artillery piece dragging behind.
Canada had no such rules for American made firearms, so we found we could use a ship registered to a foreign port, leaving from Canada to take them to any destination we desired. As long as it wasn't to one of the restricted destinations, of course. If we wanted to sell to one of the places on the banned list, all we had to do was find a neutral middleman to sell to and let them take it from there. Colum said if we sold to one place, and they sold to another, which sold to a banned country, we would be okay. We'd only have to swear we didn't know it was going to happen.
All of it seemed like a wonderful adventure, until it came time to search for a customer. Colum talked me into searching while he stayed back in Canada to guard the stuff.
“Face it, Roland,” he told me, “it's both easier and cheaper for a rat to sail on a ship. Humans have to pay a lot of money to ride one, while rats ride free. You can sneak around better to find a good deal, them call me and I'll do the negotiating. You don't have to do that part. You just move around the world and find customers for me to talk to.”
He made it sound so adventurous, telling me of all the girls I would meet, and the thrills of seeing foreign climes.
So I jumped aboard a freighter going to the Near East, taking some samples with me. What I didn't know was that Saudi Arabia was its last stop. First, it was going to Hong Kong, then other Far Eastern ports. It would take months for me to reach the Arab countries.
Well, I carried a large crate of samples with me, to show prospective customers. I even had a large section of the huge wooden crate turned into a comfortable rat-sized apartment for myself. I would travel in style.
***
Although I would have loved to see the ship leaving port, I stayed in my crate until well after dark. Not knowing the conditions outside on the deck, I didn't want to get underfoot of working humans or rodents.
Instead, I sat and read a book on explosive devices as the ship set out on its mission. Still a studious rodent, I spent a lot of time reading up on my new profession. My partner was interested in atomic devices, so I had books on how they worked. Although we didn't have any atomic weapons, there was a lot of money in that field.
Also, I wanted to be ready when it came to explaining my products to customers. Besides, I had a lot of explosives with me and didn't want to make any mistakes and blow myself or customers up from ignorance.
After nightfall, I explored the vessel. The other rats I saw aboard treated me like a gentleman. I helped that image by wearing a jewel studded collar and carrying a silk purse, from which I bought little carved scrimshaw from them. They considered me a passenger and gave me a lot of courtesy. After my years at school, it was a rather enjoyable experience, especially all that attention from the lady rats in the galley. I saw I would hardly be lonely, and envisioned many nights to be spent topside, looking at the ocean with a furry lady at my side.
Hearing there was a fantastic looking white female rat in the Captain's Cabin I, of course, had to see her for myself. She was said to be very uppity though, and wouldn't talk to common shipboard rodents.
A few nights later, after the Ship's Master was asleep, I crept up to their cabin. There was a large golden cage, sitting on a stand across from the captain's bed. I crept up on the cage, as quietly as I could in the dark. She was awake and heard me.
“What do you want? You — you get out of here or I'll squeak,” she told me in a rough whisper, “I don't want anything to do with you filthy vermin.”
“Can't you spare a moment to speak to me, ma'am? I'd like to get to know you? Please, pretty please?”
“If you don't leave right now, I'll tell your supervisor, and I mean it. A lady shouldn't even see a gentleman this late at night, much less a scruffy sailor.”
“Go ahead.” I laughed. “I don't work here, I'm a passenger.”
“We don't have any rat passengers. Captain Johnson would have told me.”
“But I am so. I even have merchandise stored in the hold, very expensive items.”
The lady came closer, from where she stood behind some bedding. I could see she was as beautiful as I had been told, and with such lovely, silky, white fur. Fur that I would love to run my paws through.
When she got closer and saw my grooming and manicured paws, she became more friendly. She told me her name was Teresa and that she ran the ship, owning the captain. Her only complaint was that, for security reasons, she had to live in that cage. It was a beautiful and large cage though — if you cared for cages. The very idea made me shudder.
“My captain doesn't know it, but I can get out,” Teresa whispered in confidence. “The latch is real simple to work. It's just that I have nowhere to go when I do. the other rats here don't like me and I don't like them. Why, one time I tried to correct those scullery maids and they absolutely ignored me. How can I be a proper lady without servants? And they refuse to be servants. How silly of them, not even knowing their own status. And the ship is so, so, dirty. It took a week to bathe myself the last time I took a walk.”
While she was talking, which was constantly, I was thinking. I was thinking about how much I would like to help her bathe. I tried to get her to go up on the deck to talk, but she flatly refused, not wanting to get her white fur dirty. By the time we finished sharing a handful of peanuts, the captain was stirring in his bed and I had to leave.
It was still cool down in the hold, but got very hot on deck as the ship sailed the seas south of Japan. I spent my days reading, and my nights trying to talk myself into Teresa's fur. When worked up, I spent time with the females in the galley. One of them, named Molly, was quite good looking as well as willing. She was nothing compared to Teresa though, hardly in the same class.
One night, while Molly was combing her fur before leaving my crate, she had something to tell me.
“You'd better stay inside tonight, Rollie, honey,” Molly advised. “Some of the crew are up to something. They want to take over the ship and throw the captain off, I think. It could get dangerous up on deck.”
That night, I heard a lot of shouting up on the deck above me, and quite a little screaming interspersed with cursing. Since I don't like swearing, I put earplugs in my ears. I was brought up not to use improper language. Then I turned my light off and went to bed early.
When I woke, I took the plugs out of my ears and heard humans talking, directly outside my crate. They were speaking some language I couldn't understand. Actually, speaking wouldn't be the right word, more like bitching and complaining, with some yelling thrown in for effect.
Looking out, I saw a half dozen humans outside my crate, one even sitting on top of it. Curious, I crawled over some boxes of grenades and sub-machine guns to get to an air-hole high up in the side of the crate. I wanted a better view.
I just happened to stick my head out of a hole right next to a man that was trying to see inside the box. We both jerked back in shock.
“Hey, little guy. How you doin', buddy,” the man asked, grinning. After a few seconds, still curious, I tried again. The man was still watching and obviously waiting for an answer.
“Uh, what's going on out there?” I asked cautiously, in English.
“Oh, us? We tried to take over the ship, and the captain won. Now he penned us down here.”
“Why?”
“So's we don't pen him down here instead, silly.”
“Yeah, but why take over the ship? You can't sell it or eat it. What good would that do? You'd only be arrested later.”
“Well, uh, we found out he was going to sink it to get the insurance money. That's it, he was going to sink it. If we don't stop him, he might even kill us so we can't tell anyone.”
That made sense to me. I'd seen a special on television once, on that exact subject. Humans often sank ships to get the insurance money.
“I see your point. That means me too. I can't swim,” I admitted, then asked, “are you going to try again?”
“What good would that do? Him and his friends have all the guns. They'd kill us or lock us up better next time.” He shrugged fatalistically. “We don't have a chance.”
I took time to think, at least a minute or two. I hated to give them guns, but if I didn't they couldn't take over the ship. In that case I would lose all my weapons anyway when the ship sank. And, like I said, I couldn't swim.
“I can give you some guns,” I told the man, somewhat reluctantly, “If you promise not to kill anyone.” Then added, “And give them back afterward.”
“Sure, old friend. What's your name, anyway?”
“I'm Roland Ratski, from America. Now remember, you gotta promise not to kill anybody, not even humans?”
“Sure. Of course. My name's Muhammad. We can do that, friend Roland. Just a minute. Wait right here, you hear?”
The man left to talk to the others in that strange language. Then they all came back and swore, in English, not to misuse the weapons. Well, then I showed them how to open my crate — I had to unlock it from inside — and they armed themselves with my wares. With a whoop and a holler, they stormed up the ladder.
After blowing the hatch open with one of my grenades and making a hell of a noise, the six men hurried up onto the deck. Darn. Those things never made that much noise in the movies.
For the next half hour, I could hear shouts and guns going off overhead. Naturally, as well armed as they were, with automatic weapons and grenades, they easily took over from the captain and his crew.
Muhammad came back down to get me, with a big grin on his face.
“What are you going to do with your captives, Muhammad?” I asked.
“What captives? We ain't got no captives. Oh, you mean the crew? We had to shoot them. They wouldn't give up, so sad, so sad.” He picked me up gently and put me on his shoulder. “Come on, comrade, you can live upstairs now. It's our ship now, man — I mean rat. You're our hero. You don't have to walk no more on this ship.” Muhammad carried me up to the deck, and showed me to the captain's cabin. “Here. This is our cabin now, my favorite rat.”
I looked around. Teresa was looking at me kinda funny. It was the first time I had seen her in the daylight. She wouldn't talk to me though, staying in back of her locked cage. Not for days anyway.
Finally, on the third night, I was sleeping on the huge bed when I heard her running on her wheel. I rushed over to try to talk to her again. That time, when she saw me she stopped running and pointed a paw at her cage door. It was wide open. Uncertain, I hesitated, but the lovely white female bowed to me and, walking over to her bedding, lay down and waited.
Thus encouraged, I wasted no time. I was inside both her cage and her in a flash, no foreplay required. Making love with her was as good as I had envisioned. Afterward she nibbled on my whiskers and groaned.
“It's about time you raped me, you handsome pirate,” she whispered.
I turned over and raped her again, a somewhat willing combination of rapist and rapee'. After that, I lay in Teresa's arms, still not used to my new status. I was a pirate captain, with a beautiful concubine. What would my high school class think it they could see me then?
When we stopped at a small island for provisions, Muhammad and the others brought a reporter aboard. She was human and worked for a weekly newspaper on the island. The reporter, wearing a veil over her face, had a laptop PC with her, one with a video camera built in. Muhammad did all the talking, while I postured and swished a small knife around, trying to look ferocious. Teresa stood in her cage in the background, preening herself. They all talked in that strange language.
Once provisioned, the supplies financed by selling part of the cargo, we left for another island, where we stayed overnight. My pirates armed themselves and went ashore. I could hear guns firing over there for a long time. After that, we on-loaded a number of crates, one a huge affair that took a big crane to lower onto the deck. It wouldn't fit through the hatch. Then we left again, with everyone in a real good mood, singing and drinking. I was the guest of honor, even though I hadn't done anything and didn't understand a word.
After a while, I started asking myself some questions. If I was the captain, how come my human crew kept doing those things, without asking me? I asked Muhammad, since he was the only one that spoke good English.
“Oh, that. Don't worry Captain Roland, all pirates do it that way. If we're caught, you can say it wasn't your fault. It's called 'Plausible Deniability', and even your Presidents use it. All you have to do is relax and enjoy yourself. I'll take care of all the little stuff for you. No need to bother yourself with it, old friend.”
As it turned out, I was being set up for a fall. Mine was the only name mentioned in the news reports. Even my pal Colum had used my name for all our transactions, never his own. According to the paperwork, he was my employee.
***
At that point, everyone was having fun, including me and Theresa, as we sailed the South Seas. Although it was fun to be a pirate captain, I was getting a little worried. Shrugging it off, I poured another drink of rum, enjoyed the status, and lived an easy life.
Then, one day, remembering Colum waiting in Canada, I approached First Mate Muhammad.
“This is fun, Muhammad,” I told him, “but I really have to get to Saudi Arabia. I want you to turn the ship around to go there. I'm not making any money down here.”
“Okay, no problem, Captain Roland,” he told me, happily. “We got us one stop first though, Allah willing. We gotta stop at an American island first.”
“We can't stop there,” I stuttered in shock, feeling fear for the first time, “they'll arrest us for piracy.” Jeeze, how stupid can that guy be, I wondered.
“Oh, it won't take long,” he told me, a rapt look on his homely face. “They'll never set foot on the ship.” Muhammad gave me a funny look, one I'd never seen on a human before that. “We'll all be shaking hands with Allah in a few days.” It was scary, let me tell you.
“Here, sit down, Captain Roland,” he sat me down on the railing and plopped his big human butt next to me. We sat for awhile, him looking out over the calm of the South Pacific, a rapt look in his eyes. Me, I sat shaking, staring at his face. “You know that big crate we loaded last week?” he asked me.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Its got an atom bomb in it,” he told me with a grin. “We're going to use it to get to Allah. Won't it be wonderful to see Allah, face to face?”
“Well, uh, I guess so.” I didn't know how to answer that question. I needed time to think that out. Like about fifty years.
“I wasn't going to tell you, but figure it's for the best. You should have time to pray first, get yourself ready,” he told me seriously. I don't even remember getting back to my cabin.
***
“You're kidding,” Teresa asked. “You must be fucking kidding?”
“That's what he said.”
“Oh, my God. I'm too young and pretty to die.” She buried her paws in her facial fur.
I just sat there, trying to think.
“You gotta save us. You're the captain.”
“What can one, or two, rats do? All the rats on the ship can't stop them.”
“You have guns, and grenades, even plastic explosives in your crate.”
“Think, honey. What good would blowing ourselves up do? If I set off an explosion, it'd probably blow the bomb up,” I told her. “We'd be just as dead, either way.”
“Sob, get away from me, you .,. you…. Rapist.” Theresa ran back to her cage to tremble and sulk. Well, it didn't make any difference, I figured, she wasn't any help anyway.
I left my Captain's Cabin and retired back to my apartment in the arms crate. I sat there, mostly in the dark, wondering what the hell I could do. Eventually I stopped feeling sorry for myself and saw my books on atomic weapons.
I was just in time, the crew making a lot of noise as I gained the deck, hurrying toward the huge crate that held an atom bomb. The crew was at the rail at the bow of the ship. I could see an island in the distance, getting closer. Hurrying to the bomb, I saw the crate had been stripped off, exposing an evil looking, large and shiny cylinder.
Hurrying around it, I looked for a certain inspection plate. It had to be a certain one, because that one was supposed to be held by only a small catch, one a rat could open. I had to get inside the casing and was too small to use a human screwdriver or wrench.
Finding the catch, I found it was still too tight for me. I found a rusty bolt, lying in a corner by the rail. Anxiously, I beat on the catch until it finally gave way. As I prepared to climb inside, I saw Muhammad coming toward me, and hurriedly scurried inside before he saw me.
Even as I climbed up to a position behind the control panel, I saw a button depress from the inside, shoving a lever down into a small device inside the bomb. There was a beep. From my books, I knew the bomb was now armed, a digital reading on the outside would be counting down, right at that moment.
I was behind the panel and had to search my memory. What was the most critical component? I had no idea how long the timer was set for — not from my view behind the panel. I could chew a wire to disable the counter, but would that stop the bomb itself? Searching my memory, I realized that all it would do would be to stop the clock. What! What! What the hell could a rat do? I was so anxious I shit on the floor, unconsciously kicking it behind the counter.
I forced myself to quiet down and think. What was the sequence? First, an impulse would be sent from a battery. It would set off a charge of TNT (TriNitroToluene) packed around the outside of an inner casing. I could see the casing but had no idea where the battery would be.
Then, the TNT would go off, compressing two or more shaped chunks of some nuclear material (Enhanced U238 Uranium). I could see the thick lead covering of one of them. Hell, I was standing on it. The compressed nuclear material would instantly reach critical mass, setting off the bomb. Bye-bye island, and bye-bye Roland.
Anything that disrupted that train of actions and reactions would do it. But, again, what could a rat do? Bite wires, that's what I could do, but what wires. They were running all around the inside, and of many colors and sizes. One thing sure. If I felt like living through it, I'd have to stop that first TNT explosion. Since I couldn't find the battery, I'd have to take a chance on the TNT itself.
Three wires ran to and from the clock. I traced them and eliminated them as useless for me. A thick red one lead from a hole, across the space, to another hole over my head. Other, thinner wires led around the inside, most twisted together.
I tried to remember my basic electricity course from college. Black was usually ground, or was it red? Maybe gray? No, red or black, and I better hurry up. It had gotten quiet outside and the ship seemed to be bumping against something. How long did I have, maybe seconds? Bracing myself, I had the sense to pull a loose label off. Maybe it would keep me from grounding, I thought, stepping on it. I opened my mouth, took a deep breath, and bit hard into the thick red wire.
I felt a tingle in my toes but nothing else happened. In a panic, I started biting every wire I could find, even the ones to the counter. My jaw was sore, and I probably had loose teeth, but I just couldn't stop myself from chewing wire. Eventually, exhausted and trying to breathe, I fell to my knees.
I heard shouting and someone pounded on the outside of the bomb. Then there was a lot of shooting and screaming outside. When I could hear voices in English, I managed to stagger to my paws, stand up, and make it out of the bomb. Seeing an American sailor, I raised my paws and gave myself up.
They had been looking for me as the ringleader. I found myself arrested on all those charges. Even Theresa had turned against me, turning me in for rape. Rape, hell.
***
“So here I am, Rocky,” Roland told me, tears coming to his eyes. I didn't know what to reply. If it were a human doing those things, it would have been all over the news. But they never print anything about what us guys do. Hell, most humans don't even know we're intelligent. I felt I had to help him if I could.
“I'll see what I can do, Roland,” I told him, wondering what the hell that could be, “Don't give up hope, buddy.”
Well, I do know some FBI agents, having worked with them in the past. It took a lot of favors, but I managed to get the entire story. I even had them try to find some of the rats from that ship, but most of them had abandoned the ship on the naval base, wanting nothing to do with it and it's bomb. An intense investigation led to finding the Molly he had told me about, and one other ship's rat, named Fred. At least they could get Roland off that rape charge, and maybe help with the piracy rap.
His accomplice, the mysterious Colum the Australian, was nowhere to be found. I finally traced him to a mansion back in Australia. Apparently, once Roland had left, Colum sold the guns to the Canadian Army and retired back home to Australia with the money. Meanwhile, the US Congress had passed laws about rats buying guns.
The Australian Prime Minister only laughed at extraditing Colum over a rat. Stupid humans. Just another example of prejudice. And then another thought hit me between the ears.
But my idea did help Roland. Since a rat wasn't legally allowed to sign contracts, the arms companies had given Roland the weapons illegally. He wasn't legally responsible for those debts. All he really had against him, that a lawyer would have trouble refuting, was the piracy charge. But it was enough for the death penalty by itself.
“Roland. Think back, its important,” I asked him. “Is there any evidence that it was you that stopped the bomb from going off.”
“I bit it. There must be tooth marks.”
“That could have been mice or something. I found out it was an old bomb. They might say those marks are years old, simply a defective bomb like they think right now.”
“I dunno, I just dunno, Rocky. I was in such a panic, so darned scared.”
“How scared, Roland?”
“Scared enough to crap on the floor. That's how scared.”
That was it. The one thing that could save him from the death penalty. The thing that could prove he saved that American Naval Base, and thousands of Americans.
Another call to my FBI friend brought a reply from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, the present owners of the bomb. They found rat turds, fresh ones, behind the panel of the bomb. DNA analysis proved their age and owner.
My buddy Roland was not only let out of jail but got the Rodent Cross for gallantry. It was a new award, designed just for him, and given by the President himself, for saving all those humans from certain death. Rat shit proved he wasn't a traitor, but a patriot, putting his own life at risk to save humans.
So you see, students. You're leaving a world of scholarship, and entering a much harder road to negotiate. Many of you think hard work is behind you, but you're just starting in on the rest of your life. Don't do like Roland.
Remember that old police adage, and “Watch Yourself Out There.”
Whoooo, I'm glad to sit back down after that long speech. I'll bet you're tired from listening to it. This is Rocky Rat, Detective, and the end.
Oscar Rat
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