The Perfect Host
By
D. C. Martin
Day One
Rat shit doesn't really smell that bad. In fact, it mostly turns to dust when you sweep it, shovel it up, or step on it. Worst part is: you're breathing in that dust, and it’s poison. The piss is what gets you, the piss is so much worse. It hits you hard, penetrates everything. Your mouth, your nostrils, your lungs. Your t-shirt. You’re going to shovel up all the shit, but under that is the piss and you breathe it in. Acrid, repulsively sweet. Your stomach churns and your head pounds, you feel like you’re going to fall over.
You’ll never forget it.
Ken Walters hadn’t actually ever seen a rat. His life, admittedly, had been pretty sheltered, privileged almost. Still, he was completely prepared to use his shovel to separate head from body. The shit was removed in 3 large garbage bags and the piss was starting to dry up a bit. He swept meticulously, making sure that there was not even a speck left. He sealed up the most obvious entrances and put a rat bait box down in a corner and he was done for the day. He took everything out and piled it up next to the swing-set. The big, vibrant yard was supposed to be the final ingredient in the recipe for the perfect childhood for the girls.
Ken was tired and sore as hell, especially his back. Everything ached for sleep, but he couldn’t shake the images, the feel, the smell. He went to rinse his face in the sink and looked up to see a welt on his forehead in the mirror. He had a vague recollection of bumping it on a shelf while sweeping the shit. He washed the wound with soap and then scrubbed it with a washcloth. He kept seeing fragments of rat shit dust in it and scrubbed harder. It started bleeding so he needed another washcloth to wipe it away. He got one from the linen closet, but when he returned and looked at the gash, it had widened. It looked like a big flap of skin peeled off. He was so exhausted that he thought he’d pass out. He put a bandaid over it and went to bed. He made sure not to wake Ann. She was sleeping like an angel. He stroked the shiny strands of hair off her cheek and saw the profile of her pretty face glow in the moonlight.
He couldn't sleep.
He loved that shed. It was actually the clincher for buying the place. The house was nice inside. It had a good living room and a finished basement. But when they saw the backyard’s green grass, flowers everywhere, this nice rustic shed, there was no turning back. He peeked into the shed and saw it filled, top to bottom, with chemicals. That’s why the grass is so green. They obviously took good care of their property. Done deal.
The kids played in the yard, the scent of lilac was impossible to ignore. It was a nod and a smile to Ann and they got it. Ken remembered going into the shed and picking up a rat bait box and not even knowing what it was, and this is important for the story: he threw it out. Didn’t even investigate. He did nothing.
That was the problem, that’s where it always started. Laissez-faire. That’s why, here we are, and there are rats in the shed. Not maybe there’s a rat in there. There’s a thriving new civilization in there. Ken noticed all of this when he went to cut the grass for the first time.
Rat shit. If you’ve never seen it, gold star for you. But if you have, you just know. You know your life is going to change and just focus on this one thing till it’s done.
Day Two
Ken slept like shit, if he even slept at all. The smell of rat piss was all over him, especially his hair. It kept pouring out of him, hanging over him like a cloud. He was sore all over. He hadn’t eaten anything yesterday—the thought of food made him feel sick. He slowly moved his legs over the edge of the mattress, so as to not wake her.
He loved her so much. More than anything else, he didn’t want to be a disappointment to her. No matter what, the shed had to be taken care of, and he had to be the one to do it. For her, for the kids. This was the first week off of work that he had taken since they were born, and now he had to spend the rest of it tending to rats. Cleaning up their shit.
The bathroom mirror showed his bloodshot eyes with a saturated bandaid on his forehead. He peeled it back and it pulled at the tender tissue around the gash. Pink stuff pulled away from his forehead with the bandaid. There was a tiny hair sticking out of the wound. He tried to scrub it out. He finally got tweezers and pulled. It was really stuck. He yanked it out and it didn’t really hurt, but it made his forehead convulse. A stream of blood and puss leaked out, turning into a pink puddle in the sink.
Ken opened the medicine cabinet and doused his forehead in rubbing alcohol, followed by Polysporin. He covered it with a fresh bandaid and returned to the shed.
He could smell the rat piss as soon as he got to the backyard. It was so strong that it began pounding on his brain. But he got there and reminded himself that the shed was empty. The shit was cleaned out, the piss had dried up.
He turned the key on the rusted Yale lock and paused, turning his head for one last breath of fresh air. He opened the door and the morning sun shone down on a field of rat shit covering the entire floor of the shed. He puked instantly. Now Ken was breathing in the shit and the piss and the fresh puke. His throat burned with bile. He felt sweat dripping from his eyebrows and hunched over. His sweat speckled the plywood floor like a sun shower. He put a hand on the doorframe to brace himself, but still toppled over. He hit his head on the butt of the axe as he fell.
It was all dark. Ken panned back and forth but found nothing. Then he heard their noises. Chattering, squeaking, hissing, gnawing. He turned to the sound. He heard it again. Still dark, still black. Then a scratching noise. The squeaking was front, left and right. Two glowing dots appeared and then four more. Then eight more. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Then they all blinked. They started marching forward.
Day Three
No sleep, no fucking way. They got in his head. Their glowing eyes were there every time he closed his. He had dealt with pressure, lots of eyes. Looking back at him, judging his worth, ready to withdraw support. Despite impossible odds, he always closed the deal. Because their eyes always blinked first. He was going to do this.
He was the best financial advisor the firm had, and everyone knew it. He was damn good at his job. He knew how to multiply their money, he saw it all. People trusted him with all of their wealth. And they all signed it away, every time. Every time he said anything, as quickly as they could. It was the easiest path. They all just wanted to get back to their phones. They acted like he was making them wait too long, like he was an obstacle. He would say things like, “Fifteen percent return,” and barely get a nod. They had no idea how lucky they were to have him working for them.
He was knocking it out of the park at work, but striking out at home. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t shake the rats. He couldn’t expel them from his mind. Their image was the only one on his brain. He couldn’t tell Ann, couldn’t reveal his weakness to her. But he also couldn't stop shaking. This was the day, though, the day that Ken Walters was taking over. He looked in the mirror. He was breathing like he just finished a marathon. Was that another bump on the side of his head? What happened? He couldn’t remember very much from yesterday after dinner. He could only remember little pieces.
“What's wrong, dear? You haven't touched your steak.”
He looked at it, cooked to a perfect medium rare, ninety degree angle grill marks. He forced himself to cut in. He pushed his fork down about a half-inch, and pulled his steak knife across. His shallow cut yielded pink juice under his steak. He stopped and raced to the bathroom.
“Are you okay, Daddy?”
After emptying everything into the toilet, he slowly pulled the bandaid back. The wound was still pink, but looking different, festering. He splashed his face with cold water and took deep breaths. When he looked at it again it pulsed and rippled. Ken poked it a little and watched a line of clear liquid spill down his forehead. Then he watched as something stabbed through. It was the size of a needle. It stabbed through in a different spot, close by. He tried pushing the needles back, but his forehead kept pulsing and squirming. It stopped and he felt relatively normal again. Dinner was over—it was almost midnight and he found himself in the shed again. He had blacked-out. He was startled by some scurrying noises and he went back to the house. What happened to those hours?
He remembered unpacking the bottle of Smirnoff from that party at the old house. Before the kids, before the wedding, and putting it up on a shelf in the basement. He just needed a good sleep. He cracked the cap and threw back a double shot and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi Phil, it's Ken. Sorry to call so late. Listen. I can’t come in tomorrow.”
“Something wrong?”
“Just dealing with this wicked migraine. I'm no use to anyone right now.”
“Get better, Ken, and take your time. Give my best to Ann and the kids.”
Day Four
At about 4 in the morning, it was clear that a major bout of insomnia had kicked in. Ken had been here before. Not for about 15 years, but it’s a torture that he’d never forget. He took each step lightly down the stairs, not even turning on any lights. He pried the bar fridge door open. Its light stung his eyes as it hummed back into its cooling cycle. He reached for a “New England style IPA” and closed the fridge. He looked up at the Smirnoff, spun the cap off and watched it swerve around on the counter and then fall on the floor. He hadn’t two-fisted since his uni days.
Ken took a few good gulps before setting the bottle down on the counter. Why was he obsessing about this? Why was he giving in to paranoia? This shit was all in his head, and he knew it.
Another big dose of vodka and he hit the couch.
Day Five
Ken saw their swirling bits. Their fur and skin and bones. They all got devoured and torn apart. They crunched and squelched. They popped and squirted. Their guts got mangled and sprayed all the way around the shed.
Ken didn’t recall sleeping. In fact, he struggled to recall anything at all. He noticed the mostly empty bottle of Smirnoff, his right hand wrapped tight around its neck.
Day Six
Its claws pulled the skin back. A sniffing nose emerged through the wall of white puss, flailing in search of something edible. The mouth opened wide, creating a greater crevice in Ken’s forehead. The canines held a string of mucus from top to bottom. Whiskers broke through, they winced and flecked through the slimy surface. He could see its eyes now, black and shiny reflecting the bathroom vanity fixture. He closed his eyes and listened to the screaming, waiting for it to stop. When he opened them, the rat was gone, but it was replaced with a putrid dripping tunnel on his forehead.
Day Seven
Ken answered the phone on the 15th ring.
“Hello?”
There was just a muffled sound.
“I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
Ken’s finger was about to press the red icon to end his conversation, but he thought he heard something. He listened. He turned the volume to max and put his ear closer. There were scratching sounds—distant, but distinctive. He hung up and slammed his phone down on the porcelain tile floor. It cracked right across the centre of the screen. It lit up again and rang. “Unknown Caller”. He was done with counting down the clock. He was finally ready for action.
Ken tore the match out. It blazed up right away. He let the flame touch the rest of the matches and then threw the pack on the floor of the shed. The red gas can was tipped over and spurting out fuel, convulsing with each draw of air.
The gas caught the match's amber flame and turned blue on its edges, pouring out along the perimeter of the expanding puddle. The flames climbed quickly. The centre of the blaze had already reached the ceiling.
Ken walked away from the burning shed. Behind him, he heard shrill screams and popping sounds. He could hear them scurrying to the corners and cowering. Choking on the black smoke, melting away with the expanding circle of flame.
Day Eight
When he looked out the window to admire the ruin he made of the shed, Ken saw the sun highlight its perfect, rustic edges just as it had when he and Ann came to see the house for the first time.
There was now no veil between his dreams and his reality, not any more. He couldn’t tell what was real. He couldn't tell if he had slept. In fact, he couldn’t remember what sleeping felt like. A time when he felt at peace or in control. He struggled to remember his daughters’ names, or picture their faces. His wife’s face was gone, too.
In a flood it all came back. It was Ann, yes it was Ann. She wore a black blazer to their first date. She ordered the chicken curry. Ken delighted in her smile, her eyes.
“It's a boring name,” Ann lamented.
But her beauty was in how she stood out, like the white iris in Van Gogh's “Les Iris”. She was truly the most beautiful sight that Ken had ever seen. He had it back now, he painted her portrait in his mind. There was more.
It was Iris and it was Lily. Iris was five and Lily was three. Iris liked flowers and Lily liked trucks. Each of Ken’s girls was a precious flower. As beautiful and delicate as a rose, as tough and stubborn as a thistle.
Ken walked to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. For a brief moment, he saw the man he used to be. The man with the perfect family, perfect house, perfect life. The man who closed deals, made everyone at the firm rich. He felt the urge to turn back, to get back into bed with Ann. To see her long hair shimmer in the moonlight. To wake up and make pancakes for the girls.
Then he stared deeper into the mirror and he saw the rat ready to emerge. Its torso was almost through. Ken had been distracted, distracted by them. He wouldn't let that happen again. The front legs gripped his forehead, claws digging in. It pulled furiously on the edges of his skin, struggling to be born.
Ken noticed the Dewalt 20 Volt MAX in his right hand. He wondered at it for a moment, how it got there. He pulled a ⅜ “Rock Carbide” drill bit out of his pocket with his left hand and twisted it into the chuck. She stood out, and I saw her. He flicked the switch to high speed drilling and spun it twice. The rat tried to retreat but couldn’t, its rib cage was anchored and wouldn’t pull back through. It winced and whined. It seemed to be begging for mercy. Ken revved the drill again. A smile emerged on his reflection. It was like watching himself being played by an actor in the mirror. My girls, my flowers, I love them. Against his will, the actor aimed the ⅜ bit at the parasitic vermin. The drill spun at 2000 rpm before it touched his forehead.
Up until now, Ken Walters had been the perfect host.
D. C. Martin has finally settled in Guelph, Ontario. Previously, he's lived in Seoul and Dar es Salaam. Martin’s writing is known for its quirky, endearing characters who find themselves in highly unexpected predicaments. His stories are featured in Mobius Blvd Magazine, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Books & Pieces Magazine, Umbrella Factory Magazine, The Brussels Review and Infinity Wanderers. Mr. Martin teaches Grade 4 and lives with his wife, daughter and cantankerous cat.
By
D. C. Martin
Day One
Rat shit doesn't really smell that bad. In fact, it mostly turns to dust when you sweep it, shovel it up, or step on it. Worst part is: you're breathing in that dust, and it’s poison. The piss is what gets you, the piss is so much worse. It hits you hard, penetrates everything. Your mouth, your nostrils, your lungs. Your t-shirt. You’re going to shovel up all the shit, but under that is the piss and you breathe it in. Acrid, repulsively sweet. Your stomach churns and your head pounds, you feel like you’re going to fall over.
You’ll never forget it.
Ken Walters hadn’t actually ever seen a rat. His life, admittedly, had been pretty sheltered, privileged almost. Still, he was completely prepared to use his shovel to separate head from body. The shit was removed in 3 large garbage bags and the piss was starting to dry up a bit. He swept meticulously, making sure that there was not even a speck left. He sealed up the most obvious entrances and put a rat bait box down in a corner and he was done for the day. He took everything out and piled it up next to the swing-set. The big, vibrant yard was supposed to be the final ingredient in the recipe for the perfect childhood for the girls.
Ken was tired and sore as hell, especially his back. Everything ached for sleep, but he couldn’t shake the images, the feel, the smell. He went to rinse his face in the sink and looked up to see a welt on his forehead in the mirror. He had a vague recollection of bumping it on a shelf while sweeping the shit. He washed the wound with soap and then scrubbed it with a washcloth. He kept seeing fragments of rat shit dust in it and scrubbed harder. It started bleeding so he needed another washcloth to wipe it away. He got one from the linen closet, but when he returned and looked at the gash, it had widened. It looked like a big flap of skin peeled off. He was so exhausted that he thought he’d pass out. He put a bandaid over it and went to bed. He made sure not to wake Ann. She was sleeping like an angel. He stroked the shiny strands of hair off her cheek and saw the profile of her pretty face glow in the moonlight.
He couldn't sleep.
He loved that shed. It was actually the clincher for buying the place. The house was nice inside. It had a good living room and a finished basement. But when they saw the backyard’s green grass, flowers everywhere, this nice rustic shed, there was no turning back. He peeked into the shed and saw it filled, top to bottom, with chemicals. That’s why the grass is so green. They obviously took good care of their property. Done deal.
The kids played in the yard, the scent of lilac was impossible to ignore. It was a nod and a smile to Ann and they got it. Ken remembered going into the shed and picking up a rat bait box and not even knowing what it was, and this is important for the story: he threw it out. Didn’t even investigate. He did nothing.
That was the problem, that’s where it always started. Laissez-faire. That’s why, here we are, and there are rats in the shed. Not maybe there’s a rat in there. There’s a thriving new civilization in there. Ken noticed all of this when he went to cut the grass for the first time.
Rat shit. If you’ve never seen it, gold star for you. But if you have, you just know. You know your life is going to change and just focus on this one thing till it’s done.
Day Two
Ken slept like shit, if he even slept at all. The smell of rat piss was all over him, especially his hair. It kept pouring out of him, hanging over him like a cloud. He was sore all over. He hadn’t eaten anything yesterday—the thought of food made him feel sick. He slowly moved his legs over the edge of the mattress, so as to not wake her.
He loved her so much. More than anything else, he didn’t want to be a disappointment to her. No matter what, the shed had to be taken care of, and he had to be the one to do it. For her, for the kids. This was the first week off of work that he had taken since they were born, and now he had to spend the rest of it tending to rats. Cleaning up their shit.
The bathroom mirror showed his bloodshot eyes with a saturated bandaid on his forehead. He peeled it back and it pulled at the tender tissue around the gash. Pink stuff pulled away from his forehead with the bandaid. There was a tiny hair sticking out of the wound. He tried to scrub it out. He finally got tweezers and pulled. It was really stuck. He yanked it out and it didn’t really hurt, but it made his forehead convulse. A stream of blood and puss leaked out, turning into a pink puddle in the sink.
Ken opened the medicine cabinet and doused his forehead in rubbing alcohol, followed by Polysporin. He covered it with a fresh bandaid and returned to the shed.
He could smell the rat piss as soon as he got to the backyard. It was so strong that it began pounding on his brain. But he got there and reminded himself that the shed was empty. The shit was cleaned out, the piss had dried up.
He turned the key on the rusted Yale lock and paused, turning his head for one last breath of fresh air. He opened the door and the morning sun shone down on a field of rat shit covering the entire floor of the shed. He puked instantly. Now Ken was breathing in the shit and the piss and the fresh puke. His throat burned with bile. He felt sweat dripping from his eyebrows and hunched over. His sweat speckled the plywood floor like a sun shower. He put a hand on the doorframe to brace himself, but still toppled over. He hit his head on the butt of the axe as he fell.
It was all dark. Ken panned back and forth but found nothing. Then he heard their noises. Chattering, squeaking, hissing, gnawing. He turned to the sound. He heard it again. Still dark, still black. Then a scratching noise. The squeaking was front, left and right. Two glowing dots appeared and then four more. Then eight more. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Then they all blinked. They started marching forward.
Day Three
No sleep, no fucking way. They got in his head. Their glowing eyes were there every time he closed his. He had dealt with pressure, lots of eyes. Looking back at him, judging his worth, ready to withdraw support. Despite impossible odds, he always closed the deal. Because their eyes always blinked first. He was going to do this.
He was the best financial advisor the firm had, and everyone knew it. He was damn good at his job. He knew how to multiply their money, he saw it all. People trusted him with all of their wealth. And they all signed it away, every time. Every time he said anything, as quickly as they could. It was the easiest path. They all just wanted to get back to their phones. They acted like he was making them wait too long, like he was an obstacle. He would say things like, “Fifteen percent return,” and barely get a nod. They had no idea how lucky they were to have him working for them.
He was knocking it out of the park at work, but striking out at home. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t shake the rats. He couldn’t expel them from his mind. Their image was the only one on his brain. He couldn’t tell Ann, couldn’t reveal his weakness to her. But he also couldn't stop shaking. This was the day, though, the day that Ken Walters was taking over. He looked in the mirror. He was breathing like he just finished a marathon. Was that another bump on the side of his head? What happened? He couldn’t remember very much from yesterday after dinner. He could only remember little pieces.
“What's wrong, dear? You haven't touched your steak.”
He looked at it, cooked to a perfect medium rare, ninety degree angle grill marks. He forced himself to cut in. He pushed his fork down about a half-inch, and pulled his steak knife across. His shallow cut yielded pink juice under his steak. He stopped and raced to the bathroom.
“Are you okay, Daddy?”
After emptying everything into the toilet, he slowly pulled the bandaid back. The wound was still pink, but looking different, festering. He splashed his face with cold water and took deep breaths. When he looked at it again it pulsed and rippled. Ken poked it a little and watched a line of clear liquid spill down his forehead. Then he watched as something stabbed through. It was the size of a needle. It stabbed through in a different spot, close by. He tried pushing the needles back, but his forehead kept pulsing and squirming. It stopped and he felt relatively normal again. Dinner was over—it was almost midnight and he found himself in the shed again. He had blacked-out. He was startled by some scurrying noises and he went back to the house. What happened to those hours?
He remembered unpacking the bottle of Smirnoff from that party at the old house. Before the kids, before the wedding, and putting it up on a shelf in the basement. He just needed a good sleep. He cracked the cap and threw back a double shot and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi Phil, it's Ken. Sorry to call so late. Listen. I can’t come in tomorrow.”
“Something wrong?”
“Just dealing with this wicked migraine. I'm no use to anyone right now.”
“Get better, Ken, and take your time. Give my best to Ann and the kids.”
Day Four
At about 4 in the morning, it was clear that a major bout of insomnia had kicked in. Ken had been here before. Not for about 15 years, but it’s a torture that he’d never forget. He took each step lightly down the stairs, not even turning on any lights. He pried the bar fridge door open. Its light stung his eyes as it hummed back into its cooling cycle. He reached for a “New England style IPA” and closed the fridge. He looked up at the Smirnoff, spun the cap off and watched it swerve around on the counter and then fall on the floor. He hadn’t two-fisted since his uni days.
Ken took a few good gulps before setting the bottle down on the counter. Why was he obsessing about this? Why was he giving in to paranoia? This shit was all in his head, and he knew it.
Another big dose of vodka and he hit the couch.
Day Five
Ken saw their swirling bits. Their fur and skin and bones. They all got devoured and torn apart. They crunched and squelched. They popped and squirted. Their guts got mangled and sprayed all the way around the shed.
Ken didn’t recall sleeping. In fact, he struggled to recall anything at all. He noticed the mostly empty bottle of Smirnoff, his right hand wrapped tight around its neck.
Day Six
Its claws pulled the skin back. A sniffing nose emerged through the wall of white puss, flailing in search of something edible. The mouth opened wide, creating a greater crevice in Ken’s forehead. The canines held a string of mucus from top to bottom. Whiskers broke through, they winced and flecked through the slimy surface. He could see its eyes now, black and shiny reflecting the bathroom vanity fixture. He closed his eyes and listened to the screaming, waiting for it to stop. When he opened them, the rat was gone, but it was replaced with a putrid dripping tunnel on his forehead.
Day Seven
Ken answered the phone on the 15th ring.
“Hello?”
There was just a muffled sound.
“I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
Ken’s finger was about to press the red icon to end his conversation, but he thought he heard something. He listened. He turned the volume to max and put his ear closer. There were scratching sounds—distant, but distinctive. He hung up and slammed his phone down on the porcelain tile floor. It cracked right across the centre of the screen. It lit up again and rang. “Unknown Caller”. He was done with counting down the clock. He was finally ready for action.
Ken tore the match out. It blazed up right away. He let the flame touch the rest of the matches and then threw the pack on the floor of the shed. The red gas can was tipped over and spurting out fuel, convulsing with each draw of air.
The gas caught the match's amber flame and turned blue on its edges, pouring out along the perimeter of the expanding puddle. The flames climbed quickly. The centre of the blaze had already reached the ceiling.
Ken walked away from the burning shed. Behind him, he heard shrill screams and popping sounds. He could hear them scurrying to the corners and cowering. Choking on the black smoke, melting away with the expanding circle of flame.
Day Eight
When he looked out the window to admire the ruin he made of the shed, Ken saw the sun highlight its perfect, rustic edges just as it had when he and Ann came to see the house for the first time.
There was now no veil between his dreams and his reality, not any more. He couldn’t tell what was real. He couldn't tell if he had slept. In fact, he couldn’t remember what sleeping felt like. A time when he felt at peace or in control. He struggled to remember his daughters’ names, or picture their faces. His wife’s face was gone, too.
In a flood it all came back. It was Ann, yes it was Ann. She wore a black blazer to their first date. She ordered the chicken curry. Ken delighted in her smile, her eyes.
“It's a boring name,” Ann lamented.
But her beauty was in how she stood out, like the white iris in Van Gogh's “Les Iris”. She was truly the most beautiful sight that Ken had ever seen. He had it back now, he painted her portrait in his mind. There was more.
It was Iris and it was Lily. Iris was five and Lily was three. Iris liked flowers and Lily liked trucks. Each of Ken’s girls was a precious flower. As beautiful and delicate as a rose, as tough and stubborn as a thistle.
Ken walked to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. For a brief moment, he saw the man he used to be. The man with the perfect family, perfect house, perfect life. The man who closed deals, made everyone at the firm rich. He felt the urge to turn back, to get back into bed with Ann. To see her long hair shimmer in the moonlight. To wake up and make pancakes for the girls.
Then he stared deeper into the mirror and he saw the rat ready to emerge. Its torso was almost through. Ken had been distracted, distracted by them. He wouldn't let that happen again. The front legs gripped his forehead, claws digging in. It pulled furiously on the edges of his skin, struggling to be born.
Ken noticed the Dewalt 20 Volt MAX in his right hand. He wondered at it for a moment, how it got there. He pulled a ⅜ “Rock Carbide” drill bit out of his pocket with his left hand and twisted it into the chuck. She stood out, and I saw her. He flicked the switch to high speed drilling and spun it twice. The rat tried to retreat but couldn’t, its rib cage was anchored and wouldn’t pull back through. It winced and whined. It seemed to be begging for mercy. Ken revved the drill again. A smile emerged on his reflection. It was like watching himself being played by an actor in the mirror. My girls, my flowers, I love them. Against his will, the actor aimed the ⅜ bit at the parasitic vermin. The drill spun at 2000 rpm before it touched his forehead.
Up until now, Ken Walters had been the perfect host.
D. C. Martin has finally settled in Guelph, Ontario. Previously, he's lived in Seoul and Dar es Salaam. Martin’s writing is known for its quirky, endearing characters who find themselves in highly unexpected predicaments. His stories are featured in Mobius Blvd Magazine, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Books & Pieces Magazine, Umbrella Factory Magazine, The Brussels Review and Infinity Wanderers. Mr. Martin teaches Grade 4 and lives with his wife, daughter and cantankerous cat.
