Did you hear that? The scratching behind your bedroom wall kept you awake all summer. You can’t sleep. You can’t dream. They sit in the shadows. They stare at you.

Whiskers…

…Incisors…

…Snout…

…fleas…

…Possibly the plague…

17,550 words of caramelized goodness: you’re guaranteed to devour each sugary-packed page and will probably regret it tomorrow! Ignore your instincts while there’s still time—the rats are here.

Critically Acclaimed Reviews for Rat Bastard: Year of the Vermin

“This book took hours away from my life…and it felt great.”—Terry V. Notreal.

“…Very Slam Bam!”—Poet Rummager

“Action. Mystery. Fun. What more do you want?”—Felicia Fictitious

☠

…Mortimer slides the glass door and walks inside. Darkness surrounds him and smothers his senses. He pats the wall and feels a familiar object.

A burst of light ignites from a chandelier and reveals bloody finger prints traced along a nearby wall. Red jagged lines have dripped and dried into brown clumps.

Something is written on the wall: RAT.

Mortimer walks into the kitchen. A knife rests on the counter — puffy strings of unidentifiable matter clings to the serrated edges. He opens the refrigerator and sees a bag of apples, a jar of barbecue sauce, an expired bottle of orange juice, a box of rice from Jade Dragon, and a six-pack of Snake Eyes. He breaks off a beer from its plastic vine and then closes the refrigerator door.

The floorboards cry above his head.

He walks up a flight of stairs while looking at a series of framed pictures: one depicts a man in a suit, hugging a blonde woman. The next picture shows the same couple, on the beach, raising a wine glass. The next picture shows three chubby babies frowning at the camera.

A short hallway leads to a closed door. Red stuff coats the brass door knob — Mortimer places an ear next to the door.

Silence.

He opens the door while stray light banishes the shadows. Someone lies on the bed. Blonde hair dangles over crumpled sheets. Mortimer sips his beer and then flips a light switch.

A dead woman lies across the bed — nothing left to bleed. Her stiletto falls onto the carpet as Mortimer’s eyes shift within their deep orbital sockets.

“…I didn’t do it!…I…I mean…I didn’t want to do it…” a voice spews from a contorted body, wedged behind a nightstand. Wiry whiskers protrude from a furry, pointed snout.

Mortimer sits beside the dead woman.

“Please…you have to believe me…call for help…I don’t know how this happened…”

Mortimer gets up and taps the rat on the head.

“There, there — no need to cry — everything will be fine.”

He towers above the rat.

“Please stop doing that.”

Yellow incisors clang together: Ting…ting…ting.

“I…can’t…help…it.”

Mortimer’s eyes squint.

He raises a foot above the rat’s head and stomps.
Again.
Again.
…and again.

“Please…I…help…”

Mortimer keeps stomping until his lungs suggests he should stop. Sweat drips from his glasses as he sits next to the dead blonde woman. He sips the beer can and then wipes his glasses with the sleeve of his shirt.

“You made me do this.”

He takes out the list and draws an ‘X’ beside Carl R. Tulin’s name……Continue Reading!!!!!