WH and The Gambling Rats

Last week, I think.
Well, it doesn’t matter when it happened, because it has happened before and it will just keep going. Shit, don’t let me get off the matter at hand now. I’m doing it again. I do that.
Last week (I think), I was up for two or three nights in a row, which isn’t too unusual considering that we have that family of ghosts doing what they do at all hours. They don’t sleep and can’t or won’t grasp the idea that I really need to, sometimes.
Anyways, I was up for a couple of days or so and I just had this rotation of bronzestone records playing at half speed and I was drinking geld cola from the bottle.
It was warm, but I didn’t really mind because every now and then, one of the rats would stop gambling for long enough to come out from the cellar and give me a thimble full of their brandy which is so cold as to make you shiver for about an hour or so after each tiny hit.
Now, these girls don’t slouch when it comes to running cards and dice all night, but sometimes you can see the cracks at the back of their red and black eyes. That’s where they keep their chances, I found that out one night when I was going all sideways and I slipped.
Next thing I knew, I was roaming around at the back of a rodent’s eye socket, chewing gum tack and trying not to tread on anything important.
The cracks had a lot of hot air gusting out and in the gelid state that the rat booze had me in, I wasn’t about to start complaining about something just because there was a whiff of sulfur in the air.
I’ve been around my share of dead rattus norvegicus in my time and I was fairly certain that this wasn’t a normal odour, but then again, what the shit was I doing at the back of a rat’s eyeball?
Eventually, I was feeling like I really needed to micturate and I didn’t want to mess up Hatt (that is the rat’s name, when people refer to her, she has never deigned to tell me what the other browns in the Mischief call her).
As gently as I could and with no small amount of trepidation, I squeezed into the back of the socket and the crack licked it’s lips with a smacking sound like flatulent thunder or wet cardboard tearing in a canyon lined with crystal from some gentleman’s club in the Far East and a long way down in the top hat dimension.
I’m doing it again now, and I asked you to stop me if I did, but now, I expect, I really need to let you know what goes on behind the cracks.
At once.


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