Rats Are A Garbage Man's Best
Friend
by Tom Koperwas
“This little job will
rake in
millions for us, and push Chief Broderik to the edge,” whispered the tall man
crouching in the large drainpipe entrance in the police station's basement.
“Time for your magic act, Troll.”
“You mean my magic
hack,” said the stocky man kneeling
behind him. Chuckling, Troll whispered the code words “easy money” into his
cell phone. The lights in the station abruptly blacked out, leaving the
basement and the main floor above in an inky pool of darkness. Switching on
their red LED flashlights for visibility, the two men pushed open the covered
entrance of the drainpipe and got onto their feet. Near them stood an evidence
vault filled with priceless contraband, its door left unlocked by an inside man
working in the station. Entering, they worked feverishly, hauling out packages
of fentanyl and meth, handing them to the eager men waiting in the open
drainpipe — all while ignoring the angry shouts of the police on the floor
above them, who were struggling to restore power and order to the station.
“I think we’ve
got enough now,
Burns,” said Troll, turning to enter the drainpipe, his hands filled with
packets of lethal drugs.
“Then it’s time
we left our
friends here a little gift,” replied his tall partner, laughing as he tossed an
incendiary device into the basement. Turning his back on the flames shooting up
the walls, Burns entered the drainpipe and followed his partner and the crew
carrying the drugs from the caper. Down the widening drainage pipe they went,
to the large junction where Ivan Petrov and the members of his gang stood in
the dim light radiating from apertures in the manhole covers above their heads.
“We lost millions
of dollars of
goods in the last bust, but only you could have found a way to get them
out of a busy police station!” exclaimed Petrov, warmly embracing Burns.
Joseph “Burns”
Sorenson’s bright
hazel eyes lit up in his handsome face as he smoothed his finely trimmed
mustache with the back of his finger. This was high praise indeed from an
important gang leader like Petrov.
“I wish we could also
have
brought back your crew members who were killed,” said Burns, eyeing his hired
men busily transferring packets to the surviving gang members.
“That’s just
like you,”
continued the gang leader, laughing heartily. “Ever modest. Never mentioning
the fact the Mob gave the two of you carte
blanche in their territory because you put so much heat on the man they
hate most — Chief Broderik. Hands down, you’re the most successful pair of
independents operating in the city. I heard that downtown, they're laying 3 to
1 odds that the police force will be defunded and Broderik removed before the
end of the year, all thanks to your efforts!”
“Now, fancy that,”
exclaimed
Troll, his eyes shining with glee.
“You’ll earn
half the take on
these goods,” said Ivan, as he headed down the northern channel of the drainage
pipe, his heavily laden gang members in tow. “Broderik will blow a head gasket
when this motherlode of TNT and crank hits the streets!”
Burns and Troll sent their
crew
off, then headed down the southern channel of the drainpipe toward the
sprawling cliffside estate in the harbour that served as their headquarters and
home.
“Look at the little
monsters!”
exclaimed Troll, pausing a moment to stare at the numerous rats milling about
the soggy refuse lying in the dank, dark drainpipe.
“You and your rats,”
sighed
Burns. “Can’t you ever just ignore them?”
“No. I hate their
guts,” replied
his bull-necked sidekick. “Look at that one!” Troll exclaimed, waving a thick
finger at an inordinately large rat sitting atop a bag of trash, eyeing the two
thieves intently. Snapping out his handgun, Troll fired, sending the swarming
rats running pell-mell. “Pretty sure I winged him,” whispered Troll, turning
the refuse bags over with his boot. “But I don’t see a thing.”
“Never mind,”
muttered Burns,
climbing up the corroded ladder rungs to the surface. “It’s time we got home
and capitalized on our efforts.”
****
Police Chief Al Broderik
sat in
the small chair and squirmed.
“I know you have problems,
Al,”
barked the massive man bulging out of his pinstriped suit, pacing round and
round in the center of the great guest room of the mayor’s mansion. “But this
is too much, even for our city!”
Sweat ran down the police
chief’s small, baby-like face. Dropping his pudgy hand down to the bottom of
the chair, he nervously gripped an upholstery staple and yanked it out.
“Of course, you did
the right
thing when you quickly suspended the officers accused of assaulting those
mentally challenged street folks,” continued Floyd Burnheart, the mayor.
“They’ll be reinstated after the investigation. After all, they were only
defending themselves from those machete-wielding maniacs. It seems the public
and the media are angry and dissatisfied with everything we do these days. I
don’t know why.”
“Yes sir,” whispered
the
beleaguered police chief. Reaching down under the chair, his shaking hand
pulled out a small wad of upholstery foam.
“But this fiasco at
the main
station is too much! Far too much!” shouted the mayor. “We can’t take another
disaster like that. It’s a good thing your personnel were able to put out the
fire quickly.”
“If only we knew who
pulled that
caper off,” mumbled Broderik, angrily.
“You’d better
find out who did
it, or it’s your job!” cried Burnheart. “Find them, arrest them, incinerate
them. I don’t care how you handle it. Just get them. I’ll give you a week. No
more. Now go.”
Broderik rose to his feet
and
shuffled away from the chair and the small pile of staples and foam lying on
the floor. “What to do?” he asked himself repeatedly as he headed down the long
hall to the squad car idling in the mansion’s porte-cochere.
****
“Is there anyone out
there who
hasn’t heard of the big theft from the heart of our city’s main police station?”
cried Troll, standing before a camera livestreaming only the image of his
boot-clad feet over the Net. “Millions of dollars of illicit drugs; drugs that
will kill our children and our neighbours!” he ranted. “Only the most
incompetent of police chiefs would have allowed a theft of this magnitude to
occur right under his nose. Yes, that very same police chief, Al Broderik, who
refuses to arrest the men on his force who have so wantonly harassed and
assaulted the mentally ill! The people need to wake up and see the truth. The
protesters in the streets who’ve demanded the police be defunded and Broderik
removed are our true heroes, not the men and women in blue.”
Troll switched off the camera
and walked over to the large window overlooking the city and the bay. In the
distance, he could see a mob of angry protesters running through the streets,
shouting, smashing windows, swarming police. He smiled when he thought of the
cryptocurrency and bags of cash that he and Burns had “donated” to the
protesters. So much round-the-clock mayhem for so little money. Being a
successful Social Media Influencer in a crime-ridden metropolis had its
rewards.
“I see you’ve
been busy
spreading the gospel,” said Burns, sticking his head into the room. “It’s time
we celebrated our caper at the police station. I bet you’re starving. I know I
am.” Laughing, he headed down the hall to the estate’s elevator. “I’ll get the
Rolls. Wine, women, and steaks await us at Delafonte’s!”
****
Burns savoured the final drops of Chateau
La Mission Haut-Brion in his wine glass before placing it on the table next to
the dinner plate of partially consumed steak. Withdrawing his arm from around
his female companion’s slim, pearl-bedecked neck, he turned to look at his
partner Troll dancing with an alluring call girl. Everyone was having a
splendid time. The food was perfect, as usual, and the dance floor was hot. The
two wealthy thieves fit in with the city’s bluebloods like a hand in a glove.
No one really cared or asked how they got their money. What mattered was that
they had it and flaunted it.
Burns excused himself and
rose
to his feet. Entering the washroom, he found it full of city politicians and
business elites making urgent phone calls while having their shoes shined.
Ignoring the busy men, he relieved himself. After washing up, he returned to
the dance floor.
Burns froze in his tracks
when
he came to his table. Troll and the girls were gone. Cornering the maitre d’,
he was told they had left with some friends who had dropped in.
“Impossible,”
thought Burns,
rushing down the stairs to the garage. “Troll would never leave without telling
me where he was going. Something's wrong, very wrong. I need to get home fast
and organize a search.”
No one was working in the
silent
garage. Fortunately, Burns knew where the Rolls was parked. Walking toward the
car, he looked up in time to see a large object falling from the ceiling.
Suddenly, he felt a violent spasm as an electric charge surged through the
metallic net draped over his head and shoulders. He collapsed onto the cement
floor, unconscious.
****
The first thing Burns realized
when he opened his eyes was that he was going somewhere. Two big men, one on
either side, were carrying him with his feet dragging on the ground. Exhausted
and drugged, he cast a bloodshot glance to either side and observed that the
identities of the two men were hidden behind black, military-style clothes and
masks.
“Wait!” he mumbled.
The men stopped and propped
him
up on his feet, holding him tightly by his arms. Ahead of him on the industrial
pier waited a gauntlet of police and a large, unmarked ship, its gangplank
lowered for business.
“Who are you? Where
are you
taking me?” he asked weakly.
“We're offshore privateers
‘collecting’ labour for our country’s mines,” grunted one of his captors. “We
were once thieves like you, until we were apprehended. The government gave us a
simple choice. Accept a commission to increase the ranks of slaves working in
the state mines, or face immediate execution. We accepted our enlightened
leader's generous offer. We were surprised to discover there was a tremendous
demand for our unique skills around the world. Governors, mayors, bureaucrats
of all kinds requested the removal of human trash from their societies: members
of the criminal class, deviants, radicals, and the like. We became their garbage
men.”
“That answers your
questions as
to who we are and where we’re taking you,” interjected the other man holding
Burns. “Now, let us tell you how we work. We’re forward-looking
problem-solvers, Mr. Burns. Noting the dramatic rise in crime in your city, we
released several hybrots* into the underground sewage system. That was
several weeks ago. The hybrots — which are hybrid robots with rat neurons connected
to a computer chip — mixed readily with the local rat populations. Cameras in
their heads provided the mobile surveillance we required. I’m betting you can
guess the rest. Our biggest rat, Charlie, stumbled on your theft ring in the
commission of a crime. Good old Charlie; a garbage man's best friend. Yes,
Charlie is the rat your astute partner Troll shot at. Too bad he missed, eh?”
The two men tightened their grip on Burns, then hauled him down the
pier, through the gauntlet of grim policemen to the small, tubby man waiting
patiently by the gangplank.
“Well, well,” hummed Chief Broderik, gently
rubbing the oversized rat perched on his shoulder. “Burns, of the B & T
theft ring. That was quite a hotfoot you gave us after stealing all the candy
from our store. Odds of 3 to 1, eh? Well, you gambled and lost. I must
apologize for the absence of your partner, Troll. I’m sure he would have loved
to assist you up the gangplank. Unfortunately, he had a little… encounter
with our gauntlet.”
The police chief smiled
as the
rat affectionately rubbed its head against his ear. “Did you know my friend
Charlie here can talk?” he observed, chuckling softly. “He told me it was a
pleasure to rat you out. Ha, ha! A rat ratting you out. Now, fancy that!”
Burns groaned and looked
up at
his unconscious partner lying on the ship’s deck, bleeding. Gripping the
handrails, he dragged himself slowly up the gangplank.
The End
*Hybrots – See Science News:
Georgia Tech Researchers Use
Lab Cultures To Control Robotic Device. Georgia Institute Of Technology. https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2003/04/030428082503.htm
