Rotten Little Animals Read online

  This book is dedicated to Audrey.

  We share imaginations.

  To Terri for her love and support

  and for always believing in me.

  And to Julio. He was a good rat.

  Scaredy Cat crashed through the fence, snapping off the tops of three pickets. He twisted in the air and sailed behind the pointed projectiles into the backyard. Rain began to fall. Scaredy landed in the grass, hunching his back and hissing at the striped cat bouncing toward him from across the yard.

  The other cat—Stripey—launched himself into the air and Scaredy leapt straight up to meet him. They clashed two feet above the grass. Scaredy bit into Stripey’s neck and dug at his belly with one hind foot.

  Stripey blocked the gut-scratch and bit Scaredy’s left foreleg.

  The cats crashed to the ground.

  The fucking meat truck drove into the shot again.

  “Cut! Cut! Fucking cut the fucking shot!” Stinkin’ Rat screamed from under a large hydrangea plant.

  Scaredy helped Stripey up. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he suggested.

  They skittered to the hydrangea.

  The camera chickens converged with the director/producer on the replay monitor.

  Stinkin’ Rat said, “Aw, it’s fuckin’ great, cats, fuckin’ great. Stripey, that’s the best leap of the morning.” The rat sat rapt, his little black eyes picking out every detail of every second of video. “Nice moves, both of you.” He shouted, “Great work with the collapsing pickets, rats!”

  Stinkin’ watched the fight on the monitor, three camera views on split-screen—one tight, one medium and a wide shot. After a moment he said, “And the rain came down… And then that fucking Iowa Meats truck drives past for the third fucking time!”

  He reached up and grabbed a branch from the bush and started shaking it. Rain fell on the gathered animals. The camera chickens spread wings over the monitor. Two of them shit on the damp ground at their feet.

  “I mean, what the fuck is with those idiots?!” The rat stopped shaking the branch. “Julio, did you get those assholes on the phone?”

  Stinkin’s son appeared from behind the hydrangea stalk. “I got ‘em Dad. They said they couldn’t find the bus stop.”

  “Did you tell them it’s right beside the fucking backyard they keep driving past?! Where they’re wrecking my fucking shot?! Did you tell them that not only are they late, but they’re turning my fucking on location shot into something that looks like it was filmed in front of a fucking green screen?! Did you tell them they’re ruining my fucking movie?!” The rat stood on his hind legs and shit. Pellets piled at his feet, and he stepped to the side.

  Julio cringed and said, “Uh, no Dad.” He pointed to the bus stop behind them, where just over the picket fence, two men unloaded a meat truck. “You know, uh, they’re human.”

  Stinkin’ kicked a rock at Julio. “I know that. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t—Great Gaia!” He turned to the gathered actors and crew. “All right, once these assholes unload the guts and stuff, we’re filming. Until then, take a break.”

  The rat waved everyone away and yelled, “Dirty Bird!”

  Animals wandered the backyard.

  A Steller’s Jay—much like a Blue Jay, but with a black head and no white spots—swept down from the top of a giant cedar.

  “Yeah, boss?” he asked upon landing.

  “Break time. Where’s your flask?”

  The bird produced a silver flask from under his wing.

  The rat drank from it and handed it back to the bird.

  “Thanks, Dirty.”

  “No problem, boss. I’m gonna go have a smoke.” The jay jumped into the air. “Hold onto that, I’ll be right back.”

  Stinkin’ raised the flask and took another pull from it. “Julio!”

  The young rat joined his father and they strolled along the inside of the fence under the bushes.

  “So you and the boys get those guts into the yard. Once you’re set up, we’re going to do the ending of the fight scene and the zombie-cats. We’ll need some shots of the yard with guts, so we can edit them into the whole fight. Fucking meat men. How’re the zombie-cats?”

  “They’re in the shed.” Julio nodded to six rats lining the picket fence. “Boys,” he acknowledged.

  The rats nodded silent greetings and went back to watching the men unload the meat truck.

  “They get the money?” asked Stinkin’ Rat. He drank from the flask.

  “They got it,” answered one of the rats. He pointed to an envelope sticking out of the back pocket of a meat man.

  Stinkin’ and Julio walked on, Stinkin’ Rat telling his production assistant/set director/stunt coordinator/son how he could assist him.

  The rain poured and tapered off. The rats strategically distributed guts, bones, and hide across the backyard.

  The chickens set up their cameras.

  Julio manned the marker.

  Stripey and Scaredy had practiced their carefully choreographed fight scene during their break, foregoing munching on the sparse catering laid out under a derelict picnic table in the corner of the backyard. Scaredy was outfitted with blood packs.

  Stinkin’ Rat sat just under the hydrangea.

  It began to rain again.

  Dirty Bird perched in the tree above them, on the lookout for interloping humans. He gave the all-clear tweet.

  When the actors were set on their marks and the cameras were ready, Stinkin’ Rat said, “Roll cameras.”

  Julio slipped in front of the shot and snapped the marker. “Scene seventeen, take one.”

  Stinkin’ Rat yelled, “Action!”

  The cats leapt into the air, grappling with each other. They fell onto the patchy grass—rolling and scratching, screaming, spitting and slamming each other into mud. The chickens panned according to Stinkin’s filming sketch and frantic paw-signals.

  Scaredy grabbed Stripey’s neck, pulling his gnashing teeth away from his face. He said, “I’m. Not. A. Zombie!” And tossed Stripey backward.

  Stripey lunged back at Scaredy, swiping at him with abnormally long claws.

  Julio cued the wind machine.

  Rain flew sideways into the fighting cats.

  The chickens zoomed in on Stripey’s face. Later they’d edit in zombie-Stripey close-ups.

  Stripey swung toward the camera, raising long, bloody claws. “Braaaaainnnns,” he drawled.

  He lunged at Scaredy Cat and slashed the blood bags taped to Scaredy’s chest. Fake blood splashed in wide gouts; a stream sprayed perfectly across one of the cameras’ lenses.

  Scaredy staggered backward toward the piles of guts, clutching at his abdomen, squeezing blood in geysers between the pads of his paws. “No!”

  Stripey howled.

  Scaredy fell.

  “Cut!” shouted Stinkin’ Rat. “Print that shit! Fuckin’ gorgeous!”

  The cats joined one another, smiling congratulations with fake-blood-covered faces. The chickens secured their cameras and clucked excitedly. The rats swarmed the actors.

  Itsy, the vagabond Yorkie, turned off the wind machine. He glanced across the street.

  “Holy shit!” he yelled.

  He barked and barked while congratulations played out in the middle of the yard between actors and crew. Finally, Stinkin’ Rat took note and followed Itsy’s pointing.

  Across the street, in a second floor window of a big old house, a young boy sat watching them with binoculars.

  “What the fuck?!” screamed Stinkin’.

  The animals stood frozen in the yard, staring up at the boy across the street. The rain stopped falling. Every chicken pooped.

  “We’re toast,” said Scaredy.

  “Act natural,”
said Julio.

  “Dirty Bird!” screamed Stinkin’ Rat.

  Dirty bird flew to join the gang in the yard. “Yeah, boss?” he chirped.

  Stinkin’ slapped the jay across the beak. “You flighty fuck! Look at the kid with the binoculars across the street staring right the fuck at us!”

  The bird turned and looked across the street.

  The boy sat staring straight at them.

  “Oh. Him?” The jay hooked a wing that way. “He’s nothin’. He’s watchin’ the chick that lives in the house behind us, over there.” He hooked his other wing the other way. “No worries.” Then he fell over.

  The animals helped Dirty Bird to his feet and slapped off some mud from his feathers.

  Itsy shouted, “He’s gone!”

  Everyone looked across to the window and saw that it was indeed lacking a binoculared child.

  “Shit!” yelled Stinkin’.

  Dirty Bird said, “He’s jus’ checkin’ out the girl. Look.” He pointed again.

  The bird staggered to the far fence and hopped upon it, urging the director to follow. Stinkin’ Rat joined him. Dirty waved his wing toward the house across the yard. There was a nude woman visible through her window, lying on a big fluffy white bed, her legs spread, masturbating furiously with a humming pink vibrator.

  “See?” asked the inebriated jay.

  “Yeah,” drooled the rat, “I see. Get a chicken over here with a camera. Tell everyone else to take a break. And no more vodka for you.”

  The kid was not watching the masturbating woman. Courtney. He had been. He watched her almost every Saturday morning. Courtney was like cartoons, only lots more bonerish. But the cat fight had caught his attention. He swung away from the porn window and zoomed in on the yard where the cats were fighting.

  At first it just seemed like an awesome cat fight.

  But then the kid saw a rat sitting under a hydrangea in a director’s chair. He saw a Yorkie working a fan—no, a wind-machine! And two—three!—chickens operating cameras. And other rats running around. And guts in the grass.

  When the kid noticed blood packs on the cat and that the other cat had weird, fake, too-long claws on one paw, and when he saw the end of the fight with all the fake blood and cheesy acting, he began to freak out a little.

  Then the scene was over. The rat was on his feet. The chickens were messing with their cameras.

  The kid watched the animals gather in the yard, patting each other on their backs. The rats were—high-fiving?—the cats. The chickens left their cameras and were clucking around. A rat helped remove the blood packs. The kid began to really freak out.

  Then the dog with the wind-machine started barking. He was staring right up at the window.

  All the animals gathered and stared at the kid. A Steller’s Jay flew from the cedar to join them.

  The boy wondered what was going on.

  The rat chittered at the bird.

  The bird did a lurching dance and fell over into a mud puddle. All the animals rushed to help it up. The kid ran down the stairs while they weren’t looking.

  The cats leaned against the high fence, sharing a joint, while the rat and a chicken with a wing-held camera perched above them and filmed the human fucking herself.

  Scaredy asked, “What is it with rats and humans?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s sick. Pigs also like people.” Stripey looked around. “Dogs, too, for that matter.”

  “I know. It’s so gross.”

  “They’re all so gross.”

  “Ew, they are. Pigs, rats, dogs and people. Ew. And don’t get me started on wild animals.”

  “Double ew. Ship ‘em all off to a yucky planet somewhere else.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “This is good weed.”

  “It is. I stole it from that dick kid I live with. Mixed it with some nip from the yard.”

  “Sweet. I love your nip.”

  “It’s the shit. Fo sho. Remember when that asshole Roger used to piss on it? Ick.”

  “Oh, I hate to say it, but I was so happy when Roger got hit by that car.”

  Stripey laughed, blowing smoke in dragon puffs. “You don’t hate to say it.”

  From the top of the fence, Stinkin’ Rat stage-whispered, “Shut your faggy feline fuck-holes before I make you play zombie-cat anal-rape victims. And give me the rest of that joint, you fuckin’ sissies.”

  Stripey handed the joint up to the rat, and the cats slunk away without a word, like cats do.

  Stinkin’ Rat went back to watching the chick with the giant tits stick things up her huge human pussy. He drank vodka and smoked the doobie. His rat cock grew stiff. He couldn’t help but sigh contentedly, even as rain began to pour again. Even as he saw Dirty Bird slip around behind the shed full of extras. Not even that fuckin’ jay could wreck the moment. He raised the bird’s flask to his retreating blue ass and took a long gurgly pull.

  Dirty Bird was just trying to get away from everyone. He could have flown, but he was pretty drunk, and he’d eaten half a Xanax, and he just needed to sit down and have a smoke.

  He hopped around behind the meowling shed of zombie-cats and collapsed against the wall. He pulled a smoke from his wing-pouch and lit up. Exhaling, he let his head fall to the side and closed his eyes. The rain pattered through some raspberry vines and fell on him in a green mist.

  Dirty finally felt decent. He sat and smoked, feeling better with each drag.

  Until a huge shadow passed over him and stopped—chilling the mist clinging to his feathers.

  He opened his eyes.

  A human was staring at him. The boy from the window. His face was a wing away.

  “Fucking shit, kid!” The Steller’s Jay shot purple and white poop onto the gravel, splattering his feet and feathers. He dropped his cigarette and fluttered against the thorny vines. “You scared the crap out of me!”

  The boy staggered backward, away from the swearing, smoking bird tangled up in raspberry vines, smearing his wrinkly bird feet in a pile of his purple-swirled poop. The boy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Most especially what he was hearing.

  He pointed at the struggling jay.

  Once Dirty Bird freed himself from the raspberry poop trap, he hopped toward the back-stepping kid, cooing, “It’s okay. It’s okay, kid. No big deal. I’m a talkin’ bird. No big deal.”

  The kid backed away toward the garage. Dirty Bird began to panic.

  “Kid! It’s okay! Don’t fuckin’ worry! I’m not going to hurt you!”

  “You. You’re a blue. A blue.” The boy backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on the bird.

  Dirty hopped toward him. “Shh! Be quiet! I’m just a trained bird. A, uh… A circus bird. From the circus. I’m from the circus. Come on, kid, calm down. Just calm the fuck down.”

  The boy started to moan.

  “Shut up, kid! Stop that noise.” He flapped at the boy.

  The little human stumbled backward, eyes on the bird. He continued moaning.

  “Aw, Dirty Bird, you fuckin’ retard!” came Stinkin’ Rat’s voice from behind the jay. “It’s that kid. You fuckin’ idiot bird!”

  The kid squealed and pointed at the rat. He stumbled and fell on his ass, crab-crawling backward. The rat and bird advanced.

  The bird was yelling, “It’s okay!”

  The rat was swearing and yelling into a cell phone.

  The boy made it to his feet. He turned and lurched toward the garage. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see an angry pink blur run him down. He fell to the gravelly driveway with two hundred and sixteen pounds of hog on his back. He lost consciousness upon impact.

  “What the hell, Filthy?!” squawked the jay, swooping over to the pile of person and pig.

  Filthy Pig bounced once on the little human, cracking his back. He looked sideways at the bird. “What? Stinkin’ told me to.”

  “Where did you come from?” asked Dirty Bird.

  “I wa
s sleepin’ in the van. Stinkin’ called me.”

  The rat joined them. “Is it dead?”

  Dirty Bird got close to the kid’s face. His sour human breath stirred the dust at the bird’s shitty feet.

  “He’s alive,” the jay said.

  “Want me to kill it?” asked Filthy Pig, gathering himself for a good bounce.

  “Let me think,” said Stinkin’.

  Julio approached his father. “Dad, we can’t kill him. We should call the police. Or we should get out of here and let him wake up thinking it was his little boy imagination. Of course, we’ll lose this location…”

  Stinkin’ Rat looked over his son’s shoulders to the gathering animals. The crew of rats shuffled around looking nonchalant as always. Two of the chickens were filming the situation. The other chicken was still on the fence capturing Stinkin’s new side project. Scaredy and Stripey were holding each other, staring at the pig atop the boy. Itsy looked hungry. The zombie-cat extras crowded in the shed’s doorway. They looked gross and scared.

  Itsy said, “Could take months to get a new location.”

  Stinkin’ Rat spun around and called to Filthy Pig, “Off it, Pig. Julio’s right. We can’t kill it.”

  The zombie-cats sighed together.

  Stinkin’ said, “But I’m not losing the day’s shoot or this location. Tie the kid up and gag it. Put it in the van. We’ll worry about it once we’re done filming.”

  Julio screeched, “What?!”

  Stinkin’ ranted, “It took six weeks of casing this place. The owners only leave for this long one day a week. This day. I’m not losing this location. This is the perfect backyard! And what about the guts? What about the shitty fucking catering? What about per diem for this ridiculously huge crew?! No. We put the kid in the van and we think about it later. Right now we shoot my fucking movie. Get those extras calmed the fuck down and on the set. Now!” He turned back to the pig. “Get that kid in the van, Pig.”

  Julio walked off shaking his head.

  Filthy Pig, Itsy and the rats got to work wrangling the unconscious human into their windowless child-molester van.