The night I wreaked holy vengeance on a “rat”


Funny story

I was awake in bed plotting evil and wickedness when I saw something dark on the floor. In the semi-darkness, and from the shape and form of the thing, it looked like a big rat. My blood pressure panicked and my heart chose to overreact, but it could have been my poor eyesight, so I moved my head closer to the edge of the mattress and squinted. Sweet mercy, a rat it was. I could see its very round body, small head, and long tail, and though its body was not moving, my squinted eyes told me that it appeared to be eating something on the floor. It was the very same rat that had been wreaking havoc in the plot and outwitted everyone. It even ate poisoned food set as bait and did not die. I imagined the many ways it could have had sneaked into my six-bedroom mansion.

Because I did not want to alert the pest to his imminent extermination, I slooowly got up and slooowly tip-toed to the bathroom to get a mop, hoping that he wouldn’t have run off to some inaccessible place before I was back. I would kill it. I would show him. I was going to commit murder most foul. A one-man bloodbath never witnessed before. The entire police force would never find his body. I would finish that fat, furry pest. Determined, I tip-toed back with mop in hand, and because my God does not slumber (unless it’s about money), the rodent was, surprisingly, still there, eating I-don’t-know-what on the floor. I slooowly and caaarefully approached the intruder from behind, like a camouflaged soldier in war, as I calculated the distance between rat and I, then between rat and mop. Then I stood firmly with my legs slightly apart and aimed. With all the vengeance and hatred I have for the destructive creature and his ilk, I swung down the mop. For all the times, when growing up, his ancestors would chew my clothes and eat the leftovers I had planned on eating in the morning, I struck. For the times a packet of maize flour would be thrown away because the fathers of his fathers and their families would eat the flour then poop inside it, I flogged.

WHACK! Take that, you little shit.

WHACK! Die, you little sack of filth.


I hit continuously with my eyes tightly shut. At the same time, I was ready to shriek and jump to the ceiling and hold onto it like a lizard in case the rat decided to run around for its life. After causing the maximum possible damage, I paused and looked. It was still. It was dead. Silent. In fact, it looked flat. Panting, and wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, I ran to switch the light on so that I could relish the fruit of my labour before discarding it and fumigating the entire neighbourhood. But, alas, lying there on the floor, was not a rat, but my (black) brassiere.

All along, I had been beating the living crap out of my bra. At 2 AM.

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