Rat and Cigar 4

This was a whole different place at night. He didn't recognize anyone from the night crew, they avoided eye contact with him. A man with a sash and pork pie hat shuffled a deck of cards. A bashful young human woman was bright red like a tomato. Maybe it was her first day.



Sneakers made way too much eye contact. Rats don't blink, so he couldn't help it.

He shared a secret look with Roberto. In his mind he was squinting, although surely he wasn't actually changing his facial expressions at all. He practiced isolating particular muscle groups in the mirror to allow for more diverse face language, but there had been no dividends so far.




Roberto was still staring at him.  "Oh, man, that's Roberto!" He realized. They must have moved him to the night shift. He must have done something terrible.



"Hey, what are you doing here?" Roberto asked. He pulled Sneakers in closer so he could whisper something to him. "They sent me to the night shift when my key went missing. All employees have keys for their departments, you know this. Why am I explaining it? It's like there's another person reading it who doesn't know that already."

Sneakers gestured for him to hurry up with the story. It was like they were playing a game of charades.

"Hey use this contraption," Roberto said, producing a cone shaped muzzle with a bunch of lights on it. Suddenly, Sneakers could talk.

"So..." Sneakers started. Wow, he could talk. This changed everything.

"Hang on this is important," Roberto interrupted him right back.

Sneakers was thinking too hard to pay attention to Roberto's speech. He tried various methods to learn to talk; he killed a parrot and implanted it's voice in his throat, he took a 2-week course on telepathy, he even tried to implant his brain in a humans body. Luckily for him, his headless body still functioned while his head wasn't attached long enough for him to reattach his head. Scary moment, though.

He looked up at Roberto, who was frantically paging through a large leather bound book, occasionally pointing at a page and speaking in a hushed tone about whatever it might say. He pointed at a flow chart, opened various Microsoft Excel documents and even Facetimed in an expert from Oxford.




"This is big! This is really big!" Roberto said more loudly than planned. The rest of it was whispers, so that was the only part Sneakers picked up on.

A great idea popped into Sneaker's head, why not market these conical talking cones? They could make millions. It'd be like his remote control lawnmower idea but more practical.

Some guy was lifting heavy boxes up the stairs on a dolly, one step at a time. Each stare he ascended was accompanied by a loud thump. He sighed and released the dolly, putting his hands firmly on his hips.

"Let me have a go on it!" Sneakers said.

"Be my guest," the rodent of ambiguous nature said, stepping aside.

"You haven't listened to a goddamn word I said have you?" shouted Roberto from in his office down the hall. Whoops, Sneakers had wandered off.

Sneakers failed miserably at moving the dolly and he somehow managed to break his beeper and cellphone in his foolhardy effort to hoist the cargo.

"I hated this damn thing anyway. It's 2016, who uses a fucking beeper anymore?" Sneakers said out loud on accident.

"Good luck with this bullshit," Sneakers said to the mover, kicking the rectangular metal crate and returning to Roberto's cubicle.

Roberto looked pissed as he frantically closed popup windows. A vein bulged in the back of his neck.

"Sorry, can you start over?" Sneakers asked as politely as possible.

Roberto still looked pissed for a minute, but then shook it off and grabbed the baton he had been using to point at the boards of information behind him.

"Actually can you just bottom line the whole thing for me?" Sneakers asked. If he had been paying attention the first time, he figured he would have been so bored.

"Ghosts are stealing our jobs. Ghosts are stealing the keys. There's some bad shit going down in Ghostland right now, so they're moving over here at a record rate."

"But that's not fair," Sneakers slammed his hand on the table. " They're incorporeal, they don't need sleep, and they never die! Shit! My wife is a goddamn ghost, you know."

Roberto narrowed his gaze. "That isn't the true issue. This city has gone to shit since the cats took over Cattown, anyway."

"Well what is the issue?" asked Sneakers.

"Oh shit, here he is," Roberto whispered and pointed toward Mr. Slimsy, their boss. He was slowly lurking towards them, but presently harassing a different employee in a cubicle down the hall.

"You've noticed how he pretends to do human things, right? When he pretends to drink coffee, he spills all over the place. He had those teeth installed so he can chew, even though he has nowhere to store the food. He applies balm to his behind so he appears to slither like a snail, but we all know he isn't a snail."

"You've been resting on your laurels," Mr. Slimsy was suddenly behind Sneakers. "Behind your office door is the man who is unhappy with your work. I'm not going to save you this time. These clients come here just for you, I know this. They're your clients. So fix it."

Rat and Cigar 3: Metaphors and Similes

Sneakers considered the possible client's who could possibly be unhappy with his work. He couldn't remember from part 1 who his boss, Slimsy, had said.

These clients weren't just normal people. Not many denizens of the Cat Town could afford to commission such lavish, frivolous art projects created in their own names. This is when Sneakers looked for perspective. Sneakers thought of his ancestors through time:

A jester whose life depended on whether or not he could entertain the king. Often, people would ask where he got his material from. He said he created most based on stories from his real life, but the truth was that he had found an ancient joke book by the river.



Michaelangelo, a turtle (he married into the family) who painted cathedrals, and even when commissioned to create very specific works would never relinquish creative control.

Uncle Leo, a composer who at the age of 12 joined a prestigious academy and refused to do anything by the book. Rewriting the rules of music all together, he was probably secretly gay. Sadly, that was his legacy.




George Leo, an architect who was responsible for a lot of famous designs, was next in line. Although, his designs were often modified by the whims of monarchs.



These were some tough shadows to live in, surely. Sneakers had been more or less phoning it in lately. He had tried unsuccessfully in his earlier years to elevate his art to a household name, but after the great art purge of World War V he firmly believed no one recognized great art anymore. And as a great tracer and user of visual references , he lost a lot of good material.

He racked his mind for who could possibly be upset with his work.

Mr. Montgomery wanted a portrait of his fictional swan bride in his dream backyard. He had a lot of romantic ideals so Sneakers simply painted as hyperbolically as possible. Mr. Montgomery was probably happy with it.



Mr. Donovan was obsessed with spiritual symbolism so Sneakers drew a bunch of mumbo jumbo that looked meaningful. It was pretty much tracing symbols from ancient books of art, which he had purchased at Barnes & Noble in their bargain books section. (That was back when they used to have a Barnes & Noble in Old Town, you know, off of highway 22?)


Mr. Simile just wanted something that would make him happy. Sneakers figured this simply meant bright colors and soft curvy shapes. It looked a little like African art, he thought. Mr. Simile seemed happy with it, but it was always hard to tell how he felt about anything. Because he always looked happy.



Or maybe it was The Omniarch. The omnipotent omniscient omnipresent ruler of this world. He couldn't fit in the office, so Sneakers had to go visit him at his giant cathedral in the abandoned Forbidden City.

The Omniarch was bored of the world and, as best Sneakers could understand, just wanted a puzzle to work on in his spare time. Or at least that's how he took it.

So, he drew a big old picture of a boat. It was the first thing that popped into his head. It was way bigger than the things he normally made, although he wasn't sure whether he always adjusted the scale for the size of his clients. He had the guy who puts the puzzles together, Puzzletron, simply make a puzzle out of this Jackson Pollock and ship that puppy out. He hadn't thought about it since.

Yeah, it was probably that guy who was unhappy.

Rat and Cigar 2

"We need you here tonight," Slimsy insisted. "Either you complete this order or I'm going to have to send you packing."

Sneakers squeaked in resignation and put down the receiver. He rubbed his temples softly.

Sneakers unhooked the window and climbed onto the roof. He was meaning to install a zip line , but for the moment he was just happy his shaky ladder was still there. It was actually two ladders connected in the middle with duct tape. As he looked at the house from the street, green light glowed out of the windows like someone had placed a bunch of those Ghost Busters traps in his house. But  alas, they hadn't, the ghost was still in there going strong.

He didn't know exactly what would happen when her hands caught him, but he figured he'd probably turn into a similar creature. He briefly considered this is an option; maybe he'd have more fun as one of whatever she was. They could work things out and get remarried.

But then again, rather than become a ghost, he may simply die or endure lifetimes of suffering. He turned his key, but the Acura wouldn't start. He began walking, it was only a couple of miles.



An uneventful walk became eventful when a walking advertisement tried to sell him a horse. This is how these cutthroat businessmen were; little did it care that he had no money or need for a horse. As it continuously attempted to hand it to him, it clearly also could not consider the fact that the horse was thirty times bigger than Sneakers.



The walking ad had obviously stolen someone's shoes and appropriated them to it's massive size somehow. The horse didn't look too happy either.

"C'mon man, 10 dollars.... 5 dollars! 3 dollars, that's as low as I'll go!"

Sneakers blew smoke in the guy's face on accident.

"Hey lemme have one of those cigars!"

He ducked into a cafe and pulled the brim on his hat down. Just as you'll find a Chicago themed bar in Burbank, California, this was a rat bar in Cat Town. There was even a rat pride flag hanging outside. Still, the majority of the bar was occupied by cats.

"Efforts to integrate the group using a pool table, darts, or a jukebox have all failed," the owner said into the camera. He was a half-cat, half-rat hybrid. There was something wrong with the inside of his ears.



Even at times like these, Sneakers still wanted to enjoy a nice drink. He liked to drink juice out of tea pots,  often heating them up first. This was a thing most rats enjoyed, as was the custom. His personal preference was for the ones that looked like teas. Shit was awfully expensive though. "$10 bucks for a tea?"



He found a hat at the bar. Smelling it, he sensed notes of cat hair. Ancient rat eskimos believed wearing the clothing of your enemies would allow you to avoid their detection. He thought he remembered hearing this somewhere.

"Hey!" a voice boomed from behind him. "Rat here stole my hat!" Sneakers dove to the bars floor and crawled for cover, assuming his true rat form.

A hideous rat family and their baby sat in a booth to his left.  They had some top of the line baby-rearing equipment, all of the name brand stuff. And they were those giant kind of sewer rats. Sneakers crawled underneath their legs popped up on the other side, burrowing into the baby's stroller when given a moment.

"Ah, I see you there. A fellow rat," the rat father said.  "Would you like to listen to us talk about our shitty baby forever?"

Sneakers checked his watch. He couldn't afford to lose his job, it was too specialized.

He looked outside, the bad billboard was still there. He was attempting to blend in with other billboards, but with the shoes he stood out like a pink hat with an orange bill.

He looked at the hideous father, who was more hideous than before.

Pulling the hat down over his entire body, he proceeded to roll out of the stroller, off of the table and towards the exit.

As Sneakers stepped outside, he realized this whole thing had just been to avoid going to work. But he didn't want to be at home either.

Rat Cigar 1

“Ah yes,” said Sneakers, as he took the last step up into the attic.  He pulled the chain to the attic door and the stairway folded in front of him. He liked to leave the light in the attic on, although he realized it might be the source of the rumors about his house with all of the neighborhood kids. He figured there was a reason they were all taking off at top speed when they saw the front door open.

He hurried up the stairs before darkness fell over the rest of the house. He secured all of the locks on the door, turned all of the lights on, and rushed over to his cigar box.  At night, the ghost of his ex-wife became visible and haunted the downstairs of the house they purchased together. Cigar smoke seemed to be the only thing that would keep her away.

It wasn't that he hadn't loved her. They had some good times, really. It was when inexplicably transformed from a beautiful old mouse into a bright blue sea-style tentacle ghost. For some reason, the smoke seemed to keep the ghost away. He exhausted his ideas to exorcise the ghost. As far as he could tell, there were no good exorcists in town he could afford.

In his free time, Sneakers liked to look up pictures of cigars online and read their descriptions.






He got all of his cigars in bulk when he married to Bernice. But in every old picture they had together, her visage had transformed to this ghastly creature she had become.




During the day he would roam the house freely. The ghost only became visible at night, glowing and leaving trails of smoke everywhere it went. Often she was sitting in an old rocking chair, sewing. She was much older than Sneakers.

Sneakers worked at The Puzzle Factory  in Cat Town. I know what you’re thinking, cats don’t like rats. They didn’t, but he walked quickly with a purpose and kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk in front of him. He didn't have many friends, other than the opossum, who was everyone's favorite character in the story.

Sneakers was running low on cigars, and the only decent cigar store was in Cat Town. Unfortunately, their hours of business were extremely inconvenient. He worked at standard 8:00-4:00 shift, and they were only open from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m every night. Ah who was he kidding, he was afraid to walk in that area so late at night.

Uh-oh, doorbell. It was probably the opossum, Sneakers thought. He was always showing up at inopportune times.

Opossum didn’t like to make it particularly clear what he was here for, and he would never fully commit to anything. Inexplicably, he was everyone's favorite character in the story. He didn’t believe in friendship. If pressed, he would say he was a guest at Rat's house.

Rat slowly descended the stairs, careful to smoke the hell out of that cigar. He opened the front door, but opossum wasn’t there. He looked in his long driveway, but his car was nowhere to be found.

He returned inside and opened the newspaper to the “crime” section. “The ding dong carjacker strikes again,” was the headline, but this paper was from weeks ago. Apparently his string of car jackings had continued.

It was the world he lived in. Unfortunately for him, this wasn't a rat's world. Rat's parents were somehow not rats, but he wasn't adopted. Some people just turn out weird.

But on the other hand, historically rats have had it pretty good. They could always eat just about anything they wanted, and if they got hungry enough they could eat something else.

Wait, whoops. When he looked a little further down the driveway, there it was. His Acura.

The check engine light had been on forever.

Uh oh, the phone rings. The caller ID says "Puzzle Factory." He doesn't want to pick it up. They never call you if something good is going on.

Our rat boy is an artist at , he receives special orders from clients to create custom made puzzles. He draws special orders and was highly respected in this niche field.

He picks it up. It's his boss Slimsy, a super-rich snaillike man sounds unhappy with the most recent project he had been working on.




Sneakers squeaked. He used inflection and varied cadences to compensate for his lack of language.

"Listen, Sneakers. You've been working for me for a long time. I was there for you when you lost your wife. I was there for you when you thought you found a better job for the board game factory, but they rescinded the offer."

Sneakers listened quietly. He considered the fact he was nearly done paying this house off. But his mind veered back to the cigars.

"Listen, Sneakers. We can't have you in here during the day anymore. You're always smoking those cigars, you're always bringing the morale down with your angry rat eyes. We're going to move you to the night shift."

Sneakers pleaded to do his work from home.