View Full Version : A Diplomatic Rodent 1 0f 2 = Adult, 2,200

September 29th, 2014, 03:50 PM
Oscar Rat's 2nd trip to the Middle East.
This is a transcript of a conversation between myself and my old buddy, Oscar Rat. It is in his words, as far as I can remember, and the opinions are his own. Warning! Sprinkled with politics. One rat's opinion, of course.


At the time, I was sitting at my kitchen table having a typical breakfast of apple juice sprinkled on the finest vodka. A donut sat alone on a saucer near my other hand. It had been there since the previous Saturday.

I heard a patter of small feet accompanied by a loud grunt as a furry head appeared from behind a sugar bowl. Although his normally well-groomed fur was in wild tangles and clumped with dark dirty oil, I recognized my old pal, Oscar Rat.

“You alone, Charlie?”

I looked around the room, then my entire apartment. A quick peek out into the corridor satisfied me. “As far as I can tell.”

“Thank the gods.” He stepped out from cover. “Is it okay if I clean up in your bathroom?”

I nodded, turning back to my drink. A few minutes later, as I heard thumping followed by a loud crash of something breaking, I was sorry. I knew I’d have a hell of a time cleaning up after him. Oscar has no regard for anyone else’s possessions. His wife, the former Malodor Skunk, keeps a tight rein on the guy at home. But, then, that’s his own property, to be treated gently.

He’s certain to overflow my bathtub. Not that he likes to swim, simply by not bothering to turn the taps off. When he’s finished shampooing his fur, he’ll probably dump the rest of the bottle on the floor to make bubbles with as he slides across to the sink. God knows what he’s going to try to flush down my toilet, most likely the last half of the roll of toilet paper after using the first half to dry himself from the shower. Oscar can’t reach the bath towel. Naturally, he locks the door and would refuse to let me in. It’s all happened before.

That thought calls for two more vodka and juices while I wait for him to return. Signaled by the sound of a hair dryer, I rush over to see him exiting, once more looking like the Oscar I know.

I’m surprised to see only a minor mess, wads of soaked tissue thrown around, sticking to walls, floor, and ceiling. That breaking sound was a bottle of disinfectant, no big deal. Surprising for Oscar.

Back at the table, the rat dipping his whiskers in a saucer of booze and nibbling on that old donut, I asked him, “What you afraid of? I haven’t seen you for months. Now you show up looking like you’re running from something. And why the hell didn’t you shower at home? It’s right down the hall?”

“Slow down, old buddy. Take it easy. Hey! Do me a favor and peek outside. See if there’re any government-type cars out there, uh? You know, the cheap Fords with huge radio aerials.

I looked out at the building parking lot, not seeing anything but a normal mish-mash of mostly old autos.

“Nothing I can see. Come on, you can tell old Charlie?”

“It’s a long story, buddy. One that still might get me killed, maybe even you if they find me here.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“One or both of two girl rats, or even Malodor if she’s found out. I need you to see if she’s angry at me.”

I laugh at that. “I know she’s angry. What do you expect when you disappear for three months? Where the hell were you?”

“A secret mission for Obama. I shouldn’t but I have to tell you, or someone. At least one of these women must have told him by now. I’ve been running and hiding in the US for a week, afraid to try for the White House.”

I poured myself and Oscar more drinks, carrying them and him into the living room and settling down before asking, “Well, then, tell me about it.”

“It began last December. I heard a knock on my door about ten one night. Opening it, I saw the Alligator Brothers. You know them. They work for the Secret Service.”

“Yeah. Dangerous guys, those alligators.”

“They told me the President wanted to see me, ASAP. I didn’t even have time to wake Malodor or Nancy before being hustled into a limo and driven to the airport. A large airplane was waiting. It was dark so I’m not even sure what kind.

“I didn’t even see the President. He was in a meeting so I had to talk to a faceless suit who wouldn’t identify herself.”

“It must have been important,” I said. “I wonder why Obama didn’t have you wait around, though?”

“Who knows with politicians? I get a feeling THIS administration doesn’t want to be seen dealing with rats, unlike the last one.

“Anyway, my mission was ... look outside again ... and in the hallway. Please, old buddy.”

It’s not like Oscar to be so security conscious. He must really be frightened. I did as he asked, even checked the stairwell doors. Looking at Oscar’s own closed apartment door, I thought of waking his wife to tell her he was there. Na. Better find out more first, I decided.
“It’s safe, Oscar.”

“Well, my mission was to convince tribal rats in Georgia, the country not the state, to let Israeli warplanes through their country if and when they bomb Iran. Human diplomats have already bribe ... convinced human leaders there to okay it.”

“Why won’t the rats go along with that deal? I should think they’d do what Georgian politicians decide.”

“It’s a complex issue, Charlie. See, even though Georgia broke away from Russia when the USSR collapsed, humans in two sections of that country, South Ossetia and Abkhazia, retained Russian citizenship. No big problem, since the military airports are in another province, outside T’Bilisi, the capital. The problem is that almost ALL the rodents are still loyal to Russia.

“The US and Israel are afraid of rodent sabotage if they ever try to take off from there to bomb Iran. The guy I talked to said Iran was also aware of the problem and sent their own contingent of rodent diplomats to keep those planes on the ground. They’re supposed to have smuggled bombs and rat-sized weapons in from Russia and Iran.

"My job was to shovel American money around to combat sabotage. Spreading other people’s tax money is a job I’m well-suited for.”

He jogged my memory. “I remember when the Russians shelled those two places. It was in all the news programs. How they killed all those innocent Georgians. Macon was in such a mess it was declared a disaster zone. The Georgia National Guar....”

“What the hell you talking about? Like most of you American humans, you’ve got the two Georgia’s mixed up. The country, Charlie. NOT the state. Jeez! Humans!

“And it wasn’t the Russians that attacked. Georgia shelled its own residents -- the ones holding Russian passports -- and were driven back by the Russians according to a treaty they both signed on secession in 1991.

It’s a long story, but American newspapers and television deliberately gave the wrong slant to the story. The Russians were only following the treaty to the letter, not invading. Politics.

He shook his shaggy head at me, then gulped up the rest of his drink. Signaling me to pour another, he continued.

“I was to work with the Israelis. They would have their head of Rodent Affairs meet me at Soganlug Air Base outside T’bilisi, the capital. Apparently, both the US and Israel have rented large sections of that base, possibly because the US once told Israel they weren’t to be allowed to fly over US controlled airspace in order to bomb Iran.

“Storing and fueling those aircraft in Georgia could be Israel’s answer. It was well within their warplanes’ fuel capacity to fly from Georgia, over Azerbaijan or the Caspian Sea, and then into Iran. The US could roll its collective eyes and say, ‘Gee. I never thought of that. We don’t control any of that space’.”

“Sneaky, ain’t they?" I said, finally catching on. "And, of course, since neither country is generally known to have troops or warplanes in Georgia, they can deny even seeing each other.”

“That’s the idea, Charlie old buddy. Except the entire world knows it with the exception of US citizens.

“Back to my mission. Given a shrink-wrapped wooden pallet of boxed bricks of mixed currency, along with two frickin’ armed human guards and an accountant to watch it, I was dumped onto a B-52 at Edwards Air Base and on my way to Georgia.”

“Did you feel like General Sherman?” I joked. “When he was marching through Georgia.”

“Not even remotely. All the frickin’ way, my eyes alternated from those damned guards to the treasure pallet. I had to get some of that candy. I had to.”

“Doesn’t Obama pay you?”

“Not by the frickin’ pallet, he doesn’t.”

Oscar spent a few moments cleaning his whiskers, only to dip them again in the saucer. Knowing that rodent, he was either trying to organize his thoughts or dreaming of all that money.

“When we landed at Soganlug Air Base I was whisked into the city and dropped off outside an alley. I admit I was frightened, not knowing a word of Georgian and damned little Ruski-speak. That and in a strange country. Bracing ratly shoulders, I scurried into the darkness.

“‘You American?’ Thank the Supreme Rat it was a female voice and in English. ‘Where’s your suit? Diplomats need pin-striped suits’."

“What you sees is what you gets,” I replied. “Where the fuck are you?”

“‘To your right. You"ll find a rathole next to the tomato can. I"ll meet you in there. I have to light a candle’."

“I followed her instruction. There was a tomato can a few feet to my right. I passed it, only to step into a pile of dogshit with both front feet. When I tried to wipe it off with a rag, the cloth felt slippery.

“A light went on at the other side of the can. I saw a lovely ratface peeking out. Her smile turned to a frown.

"'Not in MY house,’ she said.

“Standing in candlelight from the rathole, I saw I was covered with dogshit smeared around by a paint rag. Hell, it was red, white, and blue so I was in character, he-he.

“I was forced to stand outside using a bottle cap of lighter fluid to clean myself. As it were, I seemed to spend that whole damned period dirtied up by one substance or another. I should get hazard pay.

“What galled me the most was that, covered by lighter fluid, I couldn’t even have a smoke to steady my nerves.

“I found her inside, waiting for me on a fancy oriental couch. Malodor would have loved that couch. Although alone and at night, she wore one of those damned pin-striped suits.

“‘We’ll have to get you proper clothing,’ she said, frowning at me as though I still wore that dogshit. Maybe, I thought later, she’d prefer dealing with the shit than an American. Her name was Iyana Ratcohen and she considered herself a type of Zionist royalty.

“Never happen, babe. You wear the suits, I spread the moola.”

“‘Americans.’ She dropped the facade long enough to spit on a spotless floor. ‘You’re hardly my choice of diplomatic material but I"ll have to persevere. At least one of us can speak their language. I don’t suppose you speak it, or any Russian?’

“No. But I’ve found most of us, worldwide, speak a basic rat language.”

“‘Only low-level rodents talk that trash. And what would a -- hack – American like you know of the world?’

“Not taking a liking to her, I only smiled. She reminded me of Condie Rice. I never got along with that human."

“She doesn’t seem like such a nice female,” I agreed while putting a frozen pizza in the microwave. It looked to be a long evening.

“Hardly. We were at each other from the get-go. She had a meeting set up with the head of the rat concession at the airport. He was in charge of Vaziani Air Base, also on the outskirts of the capital. There were supposed to be quite a few Israeli aircraft stationed in a far corner of the base. There were also troops for maintenance and training elements of the Georgian army.

End of part One of Two. The rest will be posted later, when Oscar Rat begins spreading money across Georgia and Azerbaijan on behalf of the US and Israel while planning to steal as much of it as possible.