Note: this story takes place shortly after “James The Turd”. Read “Fluffywood Swinging” and “Under New Management” as well.
Hi there. Name’s Gary Mathews. Diehard abuser.
I used to work for Fluffywood, in the post production department.
It’s not what I wanted to do for a living. I wanted to work for my dad’s extermination firm. The job’s made for an abuser!
But Dad said there was no way in Hell he was gonna hire me, because he knew I would drag it out.
Pussy. If you’re gonna kill shitrats, you might as well have fun while you do it.
So yeah, I worked at Fluffywood instead. And eventually got fired, because those faggots can’t take a joke, and give too many fucks about the shitrats.
Why did they care that I had some fun with one of the AAs? They’re shitrats! They’re ridiculously easy to replace! They’re pests! They’re an invasive species, and they’ve invaded everywhere!
I don’t get what Mr. Laine was making such a big deal about.
Well, joke’s on that faggot. Because now I can abuse as many shitrats as I feel like abusing, and he can’t do jack fucking shit about it.
So me and a buddy of mine are spending some quality time together, hunting shitrats.
I’m the one who turned him on to abuse in the first place. It was in college. I saw how stressed he was, when he was a freshman, and just felt bad for him. I knew that killing shitrats helps me blow off steam, and they’ve got those Foal-In-A-Can machines on the campus for a reason.
He was spending some time with his family on their farm, but they’re a bunch of hugboxing pussies and there aren’t a lot of shitrats there, so he quickly got bored and left to meet up with me.
Naturally, he sympathizes with my plight. He doesn’t get why people care about shitrats either.
He’s been killing pests for years, and not just shitrats. His parents looked the other way, because they live on a farm, but since my buddy started abusing shitrats, he found that they’re so much more fun to kill.
He used to kill any feral that wandered onto the farm, but he didn’t get serious about it until he went to college and met me. He even converted his family’s old barn into a shitrat torture chamber, the first time he went back home. That’s how quickly he embraced the shitrat abusing lifestyle.
He said, and I quote, “I feel like an idiot for not making the switch sooner. Regular rats are fucking boring. All they do is squeak. At least shitrats can beg for mercy! And then, you can deny them.”
I see his point, but I’m starting to wonder if my buddy’s got unresolved issues. And this is coming from a self-confessed diehard abuser.
I mean, killing shitrats is one thing. They aren’t even supposed to exist.
But, and this may very well be my one redeeming quality, I can honestly say that I’ve never killed an animal.
Unless you count all the mosquitos I’ve squished. My city has a serious mosquito problem in the summertime.
But shitrats aren’t animals, they’re biotoys.
So killing them doesn’t count.
Anyway!
To business!
Or rather, to pleasure!
We found a herd, living out in the fields, a few miles outside of town. We’ve got guns, we’ve got ammo, we’ve got targets.
It’s gonna be a good time.
Right?
Me and my buddy hide in a bush, watching the shitrats gathering food. There aren’t a lot of trees here, and we’ve deduced that their nest is under one of those trees.
I take aim at one of the shitrats, and pull the trigger.
FWIP
We’ve got silencers on our guns.
But it misses. Little bastard moved out the way just in time.
“Huh? Wut wuz dat?”
Meh. He got lucky.
My buddy snickers at me, like the Duck Hunt dog.
He whispers with a grin on his face.
“How could you miss, Gary? You missed a shitrat, they’re slow as fuck!”
The shitrats noticed the missed shot, and are all looking around, trying to figure out what it was, and where it came from.
If they were smart, they’d already be running away.
Thank you, Hasbio, for making them so stupid.
Heh, the universe probably couldn’t handle a smart shitrat.
I glare at my buddy.
“It was just a stroke of luck, James. Luck is the only thing that keeps shitrats alive.”
“Why are we wasting time on stealth, anyway? I say we just go kill them all. Not like they can escape from us.”
“Y’know what, James? That’s a good point. Okay, let’s roll.”
So we get out of the bush, guns in hand.
The herd quickly notices us, and their smarty waddles over, glaring at us.
“Dummeh hoomins! Dis am hewd wand! Gu away ow hewd gib yu oww–”
FWIP
James shoots him in the head.
“SPECIAW FWEND–”
FWIP
I shoot his mate next.
STOMP
And James stomps their foals. We agreed that he’d do the stomping, because he’s the one with the big heavy boots.
At this point, the rest of the herd is freaking out. Several of them are shitting in terror like the shitrats they are.
The toughies surround us, bucking us with their useless marshmallow hooves.
“Dummeh hoomins am gunna pay!”
“Dis am fow smawty!”
“Fow da hewd!”
I just laugh.
“Oh, that’s just adorable! You actually think you can hurt humans!”
So does James, as he grabs one of the toughies by the scruff of the neck.
“Wet tuffy down nao!”
“Damn, look at those nuts! Doofus would feel a bit, heh, inadequate if he saw those.”
With his other hand, James presses the barrel of his gun against the shitrat’s testicles.
FWIP
And shoots the shitrat’s balls off.
The toughy’s eyes widen.
I was expecting him to start screaming, but instead, the shitrat lets out a high-pitched whine.
FWIP
James puts a bullet in the shitrat’s head, and tosses him aside.
We take our time killing the rest of the herd. Not like they can run away. They’re too slow.
“Wai am munstah hoomins duin dis–”
FWIP
“Hewp! Sumwun hewp fwuffies–”
FWIP
“chirp peep chi–”
STOMP
We don’t bother wasting bullets on foals.
Eventually, there’s one shitrat left. A mare, looks a bit young, she’s sobbing, and hugging the corpse of what I assume is her mate.
“You wanna do the honors, Gary?”
“How generous of you, James.”
I take aim, right between her eyes, and pull the trigger.
click
“Huh? Okay, I am pretty sure I still had some ammo loaded.”
click click click–
BANG
And then my gun backfires on me.
I open my eyes, realising that I’m lying on the ground.
I’m bleeding heavily, and my vision is blurry. My glasses fell off, and they’re broken. My right hand, which I was holding the gun in, is ruined.
Aw, goddamnit! My masturbating hand!
I can just about make out someone with long black hair kneeling over me, searching my body.
“J-James? Wh-what… are you–”
I realize he’s got his hand in my pocket.
He pulls it out, holding my wallet.
“Ha! Got it!”
He stands up, and looks inside.
“Damn, Gary, I didn’t know you had this kind of money! I could buy so many canned shitrats with this kinda dough!”
Is that asshole really stealing my wallet?!?
I’m fucking bleeding out over here! And that psychopath is robbing me!
“Y… you asshole…”
“Hey, you won’t need this money anymore. Bye, Gary. This was fun.”
And just like that, he leaves, pocketing my damn wallet.
I struggle to move, but quickly realize how futile it is.
I’m starting to feel cold. And my vision is fading.
Just as things go dark for me, I notice something, right next to my head.
James’ college ID card.
The dumbass must have dropped it, and didn’t even notice.
And now his fingerprints are all over me.
That’s gonna suck for him when someone finds me.
I find myself chuckling weakly.
“Heh… joke’s on…”
And then I slip this mortal coil.
I’ll see you in Hell, James Oldman.
I will wait for you, you backstabbing son of a whore.
GARY MATHEWS?
“Yeah?”
DID YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME?