Ratpocalypse Now

Get this. A few months ago I was inside the wall of one of those vintage North Side condos. You know, one of those Gilded Age jobs. Anyway, I was putzing around, looking for food and shelter and trying not to get killed by every other animal on the planet — species-ist savages — when I saw a little opening. A crack in the wall.

I peeked through and what did I find? Goddamn jackpot! It was a monkey playroom. They had stuffed animals. Toy trucks. Action figures. Carpet. And plenty of warm, cozy nooks and crannies to shackle up in this winter.

So I went to Remy and was like, “Hey Remy, you ever seen that movie The Rock?”

And he said, “Is that the one where they break out of Alcatraz? My great-power-fifty-six-grandfather once lived at Alcatraz.”

And I was like, “No Numbnuts, that’s Escape from Alcatraz. The Rock is where they break into Alcatraz. It’s like Michael Bay’s second-best movie after Pain & Gain. Also, family lore has it my great-power-eighty-eight-grandmother was born there.”

Anyway, I told Remy this crack in the wall was near an old phone jack — it was like that ancient landline technology you only ever hear about in fairytales — and we could easily make our way through.

And he was like, “Let’s effing go, Bro!”

So we got to digging.

One night, a few weeks into the project, I was breaking my teeth and my back trying to plow through this drywall when — whoosh! — outta nowhere the lights came on.

Through the opening I saw Old Man Monkey looking at the wall. I thought he’d made me, so I went totally still. He was looking around, surveying, then he started mumbling to himself in their most nonsensical language, and then he said, like some doofus Metal Gear henchman, “Hmm, must’ve been nothing.”

I nearly shat myself laughing. Actually, I did shit myself because the world is my toilet.

Anyway, a few days later I realized Old Man Monkey was unexpectedly sleeping downstairs, probably because his little monkeys were killing him, or because Old Woman Monkey was fed up with his bullshit, or whatever. Who can explain monkey problems?

So after this close call Remy and I laid low for a few days.

Then one morning all four monkeys were in the playroom together and I overheard Old Man Monkey telling Old Woman Monkey he thought the noise was the neighbor’s dog scratching against the wall from inside the adjacent building.

LOLOLOLOLOL.

Can you believe these effing monkeys consider themselves the smartest animals on the planet? Old Man Monkey purports to have two Master’s degrees.

Idiot.

Anyway, with the coast clear again, I knew we had to accelerate the project timeline. So I summoned Roxie, Raphael, Ray, Rosalind, Reggie, Rupesh, Ra’s, Rey, Ricardo, Rihanna, Robert, Rory, Rapunzel, Russel, Ramses, Rayshawn, Rapsody, Roman, and Rikishi to help finish the excavation.

We made short work of the wall. But I didn’t want us rushing headlong into some elaborate monkey trap. So I reconnoitered the premises myself for a few consecutive nights.

These monkeys had everything! Cereal. Chips. Crackers. Dried goods. Fresh fruit. Water. It was like a vision of the mythical Rathalla. Our clan could survive the entire winter here without having to risk our lives dumpster diving in the alley. The future was looking bright.

Then Remy went and cocked it all up.

I don’t know what the eff he was thinking, but during sun hours he was dicking around in the other half of the building and another monkey family saw him. Old Neighbor Lady Monkey from the opposite unit raced over and asked Old Man Monkey to help her catch Remy with a mop bucket and — to his credit — Old Man Monkey was like, “You’re not going to catch [Remy] with that bucket. And even if you do, [Remy’s] going to bite you, and you’re going to die from the plague.”

Old Man Monkey then told his wife, Old Woman Monkey, the building had a “rat problem” — species-ist savages — and they were about to get invaded. I guess even Old Man Monkey has rare moments of lucidity.

Anyway, I kept scouting, looking for a safe place for us to set up shop for the winter. But by now the monkeys were on high alert, and the evidence they’d willfully ignored for so long — the scratching on the walls and the dust bunnies from my under the fridge, under the dishwasher, under the oven, under the bed, under the piano reconnaissance work — was now all too apparent.

Soon the monkeys would take drastic countermeasures.

The time had come for a full-blown infiltration.

So I gathered the clan — Remy, Roxie, Raphael, Ray, Rosalind, Reggie, Rupesh, Ra’s, Rey, Ricardo, Rihanna, Robert, Rory, Rapunzel, Russel, Ramses, Rayshawn, Rapsody, Roman, and Rikishi — and told them the monkeys were on to us and we probably only had time for one final hurrah.

The clan agreed to stage a classic Saturday Night Rat Rave.

At All Rat’s Hour we flooded through the wall.

Remy shit everywhere, as is his wont.

Ra’s climbed into a hanging basket of stuffed animals and humped a few Beanie Babies then smeared his feces all over a stuffed panda bear, establishing his dominance.

Ricardo and Rikishi smoked a spliff in the barbie house.

Rapunzel and Rapsody dropped acid and drag raced Tonka trucks.

Roxie, Raphael, Rupesh, Robert, Russel, and Ramses had an orgy in the bathtub.

Rihanna and I went upstairs looking for fine monkey delicacies. Monkey children leave lots of crumbs scattered about, but we spotted something very interesting on the kitchen counter. I yelled to Rayshawn and Roman and together the four of us called upon our recent Cirque du Soleil training. We deployed our patented “Barrel of Monkeys” technique to scale the barstools and establish a foothold on the countertop.

We scurried over to the bag. Our hearts sank. Kirkland Brand Whole Wheat Bread? This broke-ass family couldn’t even opt for Dave’s? Rihanna tossed the processed grain onto the floor in disgust.

Next, she and Roman darted into the monkey children’s bedroom. Old Woman Monkey was lying next to her dipshit three-year-old son on a mattress — on the floor! Rihanna nestled into Old Woman Monkey’s lush thicket of jet-black hair, which elicited monkey panic and frightened stirring. Rattled, they escaped back into the main hallway in search of peanut butter filled pretzels.

There was only one room left to explore.

I slid under the door with ease. Hugging the walls, I jutted behind the desk, under the bookshelf, into the bathroom, then under the bed. Nothing interesting. What was on that bed?

I hopped up — nice Target blanket cheap-asses — and pitter-pattered toward the chintzy headboard from Amazon when Old Man Monkey threw the blanket and sheets off himself and said, “What the hell?!” and turned on the lights and turned on the flashlight on his phone and looked under the bed and under the nightstand and under the dresser and inside the closet and couldn’t find me because I was standing right behind him the whole time.

Idiot.

Then, Old Man Monkey, like a daft Arkham City henchman, literally said, “Maybe it’s just my imagination” and got back in his bed and read The Financial Times and pretended like his life wasn’t meaningless.

With sunrise approaching Rat Rave had been a smashing success. We funneled back into the wall knowing the monkeys would quickly implement defensive tactics. Within days “exterminators” would be called out — species-ist savages — and they’d soon discover our clandestine superhighway.

True to form, Old Man Monkey spent Sunday afternoon patching our access point with drywall and joint compound. Shoddy craftsmanship, but an effective deterrent.

So we’ll call it a stalemate. For now.

But we’ll launch another offensive soon.

Because, what the monkeys don’t — and will never — realize is this: We, The Rats, are the chosen species.

We’re persecuted. Vilified. Experimented upon.

Indomitable.

The monkeys can destroy the planet and themselves with microplastics and cryptocurrencies and fossil fuels and nuclear weapons.

We will outlast them.

We are stronger.

We are legion.

CODA

In a plot twist befitting #2022, our condo’s pest control specialist came out to review the evidence of our rat infestation and concluded the invader was probably a domesticated pet of some kind.

The intruder didn’t eat anything, ran around the entire house like it was a goddamned amusement park, and intentionally sought out humans — all behaviors uncharacteristic of Chicago’s legendary city rats.

My wife and I’s current (desired) hypothesis is the interloper was a domesticated ferret. Rationale: Why not?

Luckily, since last Saturday Night’s Mysterious Rodent Spectacular there haven’t been any further indications of breaking and entering.

Godspeed furry friend(s).