View Full Version : Oscar Rat's Mission to Iraq = One of Two, 2,800

September 26th, 2014, 09:18 PM
Oscar Rat on a mission for the President.

To enjoy this story, and others by this author, you need to suspend belief in reality as well as any fear or repulsion for rodents.

This is a virtually true story of his first mission as a spy for the US.

Oscar has forced me to post this story under threat of biting my toes. One time, and one time only Oscar showed me his human toe collection. Gross. Oh, and Oscar Rat is my bestest friend, which says a lot about me.


In Oscar's own words....

Having a day off from my job as a writer for the venerable Rat Archives, I thought I'd lie around the house watching my wife, Malodor, do her housework. I rather enjoy watching her luscious fluffy black-and-white tail swishing around while dusting furniture. As the rat of the house, I take every opportunity to instruct her on the correct way to do the dishes and other menial activities.

Women can get into stupid habits if a guy doesn't occasionally pay attention to the puttering around they call work. It's not as though they have to do much. I find Malodor tries to impress me on those occasions, stretching out the little bit of labor housework actually encompasses. My wife has no idea of the real work a male has to do to support a household. Normally, I let her have her little foibles.

Looking up from the computer, I saw her glancing back at me, a frown on her furry face. Knowing that lovely skunk's thinking processes, I knew I had to get out before she tried to get me to help. A real rat does NOT do housework. Not when he has a wife. When she turned back to the stove to check the pizza sauce for dinner, I slipped out the front door.

Since my human buddy, Charlie, lives down the hall and had his door open, I stopped in to see him. I knew he could be counted on for a free drink or three.

Scampering inside, I saw him bent over his kitchen table. Jumping onto a chair, then the table, I landed on a pile of postage stamps. Now why, I thought, should a human idiot be playing with them things? I noticed they were used, yet. Worthless.

"Don't stomp around, Oscar. I'm sorting them out."

"They're wet," I observed. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. "What good are wet, used, postage stamps?"

"It's a hobby. I sent away for these on E-Bay," he explained the unexplainable. "They came on pieces of envelope. I had to soak them in water to get the stamps off."

"Yeah? Sure. But why?"

"For the fun of it. See, I glue them into books, in series and by country."

I shrugged. Humans sometimes do strange things. A guy has to get used to their erratic thinking. Finding a clear spot, I settled down to watch him screwing around with those squares of paper. "What good are they? You don't cook and eat them, do you? In soup or something?"

"Quiet, Oscar. You'd never understand. Hobbies are something humans do and rats don't do."

"We rats have more sense than to screw around with useless objects and for senseless reasons. If I can't eat it, use it for something or sell it, I don't want it."

"Hey! Look what I found. You seen anything like this before?" Charlie asked me, holding out a piece of microfilm, about a half-inch square -- wi ... with a pur ... purple and yellow striped bor ... border.

No frickin' way. It couldn't be .. could it? What are the odds, billions to one? I had to hold back a bowel movement, knowing crapping on the table would get me evicted.

"Can I see it?" I asked, dazed at the prospect.

"Keep it if you want. It's not a stamp," he told me.

"Maybe I will. It ... it might look good stuck on my computer at home," I lied. While he continued sorting stamps, I made an excuse and scampered back home.

Although it was probably not the vital microfilm that could have avoided a war that's killed over a million people, I had to find out for certain. That border was a dead giveaway. It could have come from my own microfilm camera; the one Dickie gave me for secret missions when he was in the White House. Of course, other American spies carried the same model, so it could be anything. Anything at all.

"Oscar, honey," Malodor called, seeing me coming in, "I need you to help clean behind the stove."

Heart beating so loudly I barely heard her, I hurried to my computer. First, I scanned the film into memory, then brought a picture of it up. The program enlarged and enhanced the photo to a point where I could read it with a magnifying glass. Some of the words weren't too clear -- especially at the right edge where the doctor hadn't held the camera straight, but I could read enough to validate the page. Beyond all chance and reasoning, I had found lost proof that could have avoided the war with Iraq.

"Oscar. Get your ratty ass over here to help me, right now." I looked up, tears flowing, to see my wife standing over me, tail raised as though ready to spray.

"Please, Malodor ... baby. I really need time by myself. I really do." The words came out in anguished sobs. Eyes wide, she backed off.

"What is it, Oscar? Can I help?"

"I can't tell you. It has to do with when I worked for Georgie and Dickie. A national security thing."

"Well. That's finished. Those two can't hurt you anymore. They took advantage of you, honey. They took advantage of a lot of people." Seeing my face, she continued, "I see you want to be alone. I have an appointment to get my tail curled anyway. I'll be back when I'm finished." A minute later, still in a daze, I heard the front door close.

Alone, I put my head down on the desk and sobbed, out of control. My mind went back to that fateful mission, the first I'd made for Dickie....

"Me and Georgie want you to go to Iraq, Oscar," Dickie told me while loading and unloading his office shotgun. It was the sawed-off one he kept under his desk, not the Winchester on the wall or the larger one in the closet. Sometimes I'd have to duck as he swung the barrel in my direction. "I have an F-16 waiting to fly you there. Your mission is to find out, for once and for all, whether Saddam has those WMDs hidden away." I could see rage mounting in his eyes, making them bug out a full inch. "If they do, we'll kill all those damned towel-heads."

"Uh ... and if they don't?" I asked, humbled by his size and furious manner.

"That's the wonder of using acronyms like WMD.” The old man grinned down at me. “Since there's no clear definition, I can always change the meaning while keeping the initials." He took a moment to pop loose dentures back into place. "You're bound to find something that will kill a lot of people. After all, we gave them that stuff back in the ‘80s. Our Iraqi spies have been keeping track of each shell and bomb, so we know they have some left over from bombing the Iranians and Kurds and Wheys over there."

"If you already have spies, Dickie, why me?"

"Cause we don't trust them bastards. A rat ... a patriotic American rat, can get in and get us real proof that will be believed."


Within an hour, I was outfitted with a rodent-sized flight suit, along with other equipment like an, ugh, parachute. I'd never used one of those before. I was also given a camera that took microfilm pictures and a small .11 caliber pistol. The gun was for use against other rodents.

Oh! And I was given a shaded flashlight to use in contacting one of our rodent spys. I was told it would be a female and given a password. Let me tell you, as it was my first mission I was petrified -- especially about the idea of jumping out of a speeding fighter jet.


"Get ready, sir," the pilot told me over the intercom. "I'm gonna swing down to 2k meters and pop your hatch. That's your signal to jump ... and good luck, Mr. Rat. I wouldn't want your job."

"Neither would I," I replied. As the jet tipped upward at full throttle, I felt my whiskers trying to flow from a greatly flattened muzzle to the back of my head. Meanwhile, my teeth seemed to crawl back into my throat as we hit five "g"s. Hours later, the reverse. Going down at a fast rate, I almost floated into his part of the cockpit. As the plane leveled off, I settled toward the floor. With a "crack", I was shot upward, bouncing against the inside of the Plexiglas as it left the aircraft.

The ground rushed toward me. Whenever sore eyes swung back toward the earth, I got a flash of a large white building complex. With a jerk, my parachute snapped open. After that, it was a long lazy trip to a concrete parking lot.

I tried jerking on those lines leading to the chute part, but didn't have time to figure out just how to go about it. Nobody had taken the trouble of showing me. When I'd asked Dickie to send me to CIA school, he'd declined, saying, "No can do, Oscar. I'm afraid having a rat in class would be too disruptive to the other students."

So, there I was, on the ground near the Euphrates River and a town named Qaryat Al Gharab -- not knowing a damned thing about the spy business or even how to get the hell back to the United States. When I'd asked Dickie, the idiot told me, "You're a smart rat, Oscar. I'm sure you'll find a way back." On the pro side, he had offered to have a special shotgun made for me, and to teach me how to use it -- after I returned, that is.

When I landed on concrete, I released the parachute. Rolling it up, I wondered where to hide the thing. The nearest place seemed to be a potted plant in front of a building fifty-yards away. To get there, I'd have to drag that white chute across a dark lot where guards could be stationed anywhere.

Well, I did strip that flight suit off in record time, feeling my bowels -- formerly clutched in fear -- ready to release. I didn't make it, the legs on the suit filling up with shit before I could get my own furry legs out. Fine. Now I had to drag not only a parachute but also a pile of shit off the lot. I sincerely wished I'd stayed home.

While working on my courage and wishing I'd brought a roll of toilet paper, or at least a paper towel to wipe my legs, I turned the flashlight on and swung it in all directions. Someone should have been there to meet me.

From out of nowhere, a soft female voice uttered, "Saddam sucks."

"What was that?" I looked around, seeing nothing close by except concrete.

"Saddam sucks."

Oh, yeah. The password. "Uh ... sucks what?"

"You tell me."

"Camel coc ... I mean cigarettes. Camel cigarettes."

"Clang." A manhole, I mean rathole, cover opened a few yards away, a head sticking out. It was female and smiling.

"Am I glad to see you," I said. I started over, dragging silk and crap behind me. She started to help by pulling the chute inside. "What the hell is this? Leave that shit outside. dump it. I have tp clean in here."

It was pitch black inside a tunnel. I turned my flashlight on, a reddish beam illuminating a corridor going off into the distance on both sides. I could see it'd been carved into the earth, with a dirt floor.

My companion was a real knockout, though. A beautiful young girl rat.

"So you're Oscar, uh? Not very impressive, are you? I hope you know your job."

"Now hold on there, miss.... I was sent by the Vice, himself."

"Which doesn't say much. My name's Raena, Raena Al-Ratwan."

"Well, Raena, I do know my job. I'm a famous rat fiction writer in the States."


"If it means anything, I do find you impressive. Very much so. What's next?"

"I take you to Dr. Hassan Kufi Mousaibi, for an interview. He's an expert on our country's armament."

"Even the hidden stuff?"

"I don't know of any 'hidden stuff', but maybe the doctor does," lovely Raena told me. "All I do is keep lists on conventional armaments. He's my boss and knows more than I do."

It took us ten minutes to get to to the end of our tunnel and into the basement of one of the buildings. We emerged into a human-sized storage room with some kind of large cannon shells stored on endless rows of shelving. There were also pallets of wooden boxes stacked at one end of the room. I couldn't see to the other end. Fluorescent bulbs lit the space in a harsh white light.

Raena led me along one wall, finally angling off under a row of shelves. We approached a large but flabby old mouse sitting at a toy desk. She introduced me to the doctor. We shook paws and I -- tired from the jump and walking -- flopped down in front of the desk.

"I'm here to find proof of hidden weapons, Doctor Mousaibi," I told him. "Apparently, our President doesn't believe UN inspectors."

"He should, cause there aren't any hidden WMDs," the doctor replied. "Saddam destroyed them, all that were left over from killing Iranians and Kurds."

"Are you certain? He and his Vice seem to think they exist."

"Certain? Of course. It would be impossible to hide anything like that from us rodents. Our spy system is superb. Nothing gets by us." He turned to Raena. "See if we have a towel or something he can wipe his legs with?"

"Do you have proof I can take back?" I asked. I looked over at Raena's rear swishing seductively as she hurried off to find a rag.

"Yes, friend Oscar. We'll get you cleaned up. I was thinking all American rats smelled that way. Full of shit." He laughed. "Do you have a camera with you? I have several papers that prove my point."

I gave him my camera and he took a half-dozen reduced photos. Then, Doctor Mousaibi laid the smaller pictures down in a square and took a final microfilm shot of all six together.

"Saves on space." he said, showing it to me. I noticed the distinctive CIA border, purple-and-yellow striped for authenticity. "Now, in case you get caught," he told me, "I'll place this microfilm under a stamp on a personal letter to your President. I can have my people get it into a diplomatic pouch to the US."

"If you can do that," I asked, surprised, "why did I have to come here?"

"For several reasons, Oscar. First of all, as an officially trusted American witness. Secondly, to furnish an official CIA camera to take the picture. And, finally, he-he-he, to throw Saddam's people off the track. All the way back to the States, they'll be trying to find it on you, not even suspecting I simply put it into that diplomatic pouch."

I shuddered. "You mean they know I'm here?"

"Of course they do. I'd be a fool to think Saddam doesn't have his own spies among my people."

"Uh, I'm not used to this spy game. How can you be so sure of that?"

"Because," he told me, in a confidential whisper, "Raena's one of Saddam's spies. That's why I asked her to bring you here."

"Oh!" About that time, I could see the beautiful Raena hurrying back with a paper towel.

"I also asked her to help get you out of the country. Have your fun, but be careful."

End of part one of two. The second half will be posted tomorrow.
Written by Oscar Rat, the famouse rat writer.
(Typed by that idiot, Charlie.)