A few years ago, when my wife and I lived in Richmond, VA, we experienced our first home invasion. Pots and pans were knocked over, food was knocked down on the floor, and our intruder made it clear how/where he had gotten in and out.

My wife and I are both from rural areas where we leave our doors unlocked all day. And from time to time, we’d been know to leave our doors unlocked, either the front or the back door. But here’s the thing, Southerners don’t take kindly to people invading their homes. My dad kept a shotgun in his bedroom just in case anyone ever decided to break in.

So when we found that someone had broken into our apartment in Richmond, I got pissed.

You might think the first thing I did was call the police, or maybe I went out and bought a gun. But you’d be wrong on both accounts. Instead, what I did was plug up the hole our intruder had made to get in and out of our apartment, and I bought glue traps.

That’s right, our intruder was a rat.

And not just an average sized rat. No, this was a behemoth. I saw it once, and I swear to God, it was the size of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, with a tail — a long, nasty, rigid appendage that trailed behind its grotesque body.

When I first saw this monstrosity, I called our landlord. This rat had burrowed through our wall and left a decent sized hole for him to escape from, so the landlord needed to come and fix it. And he did. He filled the wall with concrete. Problem solved.


This rat may have actually been a mutated Mole Rat like you come across in Fallout. Because — I shit you not — this little fucker, ATE THROUGH THE HALF DRIED CONCRETE AND BROKE BACK INTO MY PLACE THE NEXT NIGHT.

The guy who kept the grounds at our complex was in awe when he came back the next day. How in the hell does a rat NOT die after eating *still* drying concrete? I didn’t know, and neither did he. All we could assume was, either this rat was a mutated monstrosity left over from a time before humans, or this is just one hell of a crazed psychopathic rodent.

So the maintenance guy left about 5 glue traps out to catch the little bastard. Leaving me, alone, surrounded by adhesive traps that the maintenance guy topped with peanut butter. So I went about my day and continued playing video games.

Late that night, while I peacefully slept in my bed, I heard what sounded like a distant screech. When I woke up, I thought it had been in my dream. But it sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. But it disappeared. And for a few moments, I heard nothing but silence. So I laid back down and continued my slumber.

Waking the next morning, that same screech came roaring back into my ears. And I knew that what I’d thought was just a dream, had actually been the screams of this rat in the night. So I left my room and headed towards the kitchen.

There he was, a rat the size of Manhattan, staring at me, screeching with the ear-splitting veracity of a Banshee in Mass Effect 3.

(If you’ve never played ME3, let me tell you, this is a scream that sounds like the high note Mariah Carey used to hit, but more shrill, and bone-shakingly terrifying.)

So I inched closer; half his paws were on the sticky pad, and two other ones were dangling off. He shuffled his feet, moving the pad, and screeched. It startled me, and I jumped back. But as I landed, I was overcome with a sense of purpose.

Like Leonidas defending Greece, I had trapped my intruder, and it was time to strike.

95% of the time, I’m a mellow kind of guy. But again, having been raised in the South, I don’t take kindly to thieves and intruders. Protecting my home wasn’t just an option — it was an obligation, a duty.

But I still had one problem: this gargantuan rat could still present a danger. He could still move, though not by much, he was able to shuffle his hind legs enough to move the sticky pad around. If I tried to grab the pad with him on it, there was — or at least I theorized — a chance he could bite me.

I’m not a big fan of needles. And I’ve heard rabies needles are huge. Plus, what if this fucker had the plague? God, taken out by a 15th-century disease? How humiliating.

Looking around the room, I had two options. A broom and a garbage can. Working quickly to devise a plan, I decided the best way to handle this, was to place the garbage can on the ground, and then “sweep” the sticky pad into the trash can; thus removing any way for me to get bitten.

I then realized, that though this was a good idea, putting him in the trash, then taking him out to the road to writhe in a plastic bag, screaming at the top of his lungs, well, it just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. Plus, I was still pissed he had invaded my home. So he had to die for his transgressions.

Now, I could go into gruesome detail here. But I won’t. Let’s just say that I used the power of Mjolnir, and brought down upon him righteous indignation. I may have also yelled, “THIS IS SPARTA!” as I did it. (whatever, fuck that monster)

Why do I tell you this story? Well, because when I got home this morning from the coffee shop, there was an intruder in my kitchen, stuck to a sticky pad that one of my roommates for the summer had put out. And then, as I prepared my breakfast, I told him this story. It will be the last story he ever hears, but I said it to this tiny invader so that he could understand why it had to be this way; I also said it loud enough so that if any of his friends were hiding out, they’d run in fear.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Robbie, rats can’t understand you.” And that’s true. But I don’t give a fuck. Because he infiltrated my home, disrupted my peace of mind, and attempted to steal that is which mine. So no, I will show him and his friends no mercy. I shall not forget their transgressions. Because I will strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my home. And they will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon them.

Let that be a warning to every rat in residing within New York City — You have been warned.