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My Ratty Luck	By : Helbling Category: Anita Blake > FemmeSlash Views: 2501 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Anita Blake series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Ironically enough, my life as I knew it ended for the second time on the same day I finally freed myself from the lower echelons of hell. Otherwise known as my job as a supermarket cashier.

I was working there because me shrink told me too. Why this didn’t alert me to the fact something was wrong I’ll never know, but there you go. You see my entire family was killed in a terrorist attack by the IRA about 18 months ago, so what with the inheritance and the insurance and the random people who kept sending me money by post (I never understood that, what, ‘oh, you poor thing, here, have a postal order for £20’??) I actually would never need to work again. But he said a lack of things to do was making me depressed (nothing to do with having to fill up the family plot all in one funeral, could it?), so somehow I ended up there.

Let’s start at the beginning shall we? Picture it, if you will, me off at university, my family meanwhile, holding a gathering to celebrate my Nan’s 80th without me. Some uninformed idiot wanting Ireland ‘free from oppressors’ bursts in and sprays the house with bullets before hitting the gas tank my grandparents insisted on having for some reason, and blowing everything in the vicinity to kingdom come. He apparently had gotten our old Irish family mixed up with another one, and thus exacted revenge in a manner he thought suitable.

They kept my baby brother alive on a ventilator long enough to for me to say goodbye. The bastard was lucky he was already dead.

Everyone was incredibly apologetic, of course. The British for not stopping the attack, the Irish for attacking the wrong people (yes they said that, I suspect their response would have been markedly different had the assassin actually killed the proper target) and everyone else because I was visible victim of the war on terror. It barely had to be rumoured that I was looking to get out of the country for a while to clear my head of old memories to get every embassy in London on the phone, offering visas, and diplomatic immunity, the works. I ended up here in America because I didn’t want to put effort into learning a new language. I ended up in St. Louis because that’s where the dart landed when I closed my eyes and threw it at a map.

Unfortunately, there’s one downside to the US. The people here, well, they’re extremely into self-diagnosing. They actually advertise drugs on TV, and then you’re supposed to go to your Doctor, and request them. What? I’d love to know when bowing down to the knowledge of the person who actually spent 7 years reading medicine went out of fashion.

They are also into diagnosing others. And so the second I landed here, I was offered counselling at the expense of the state. Riiiight. I refused.

A week later I get a call, saying I /need/ to go in for a check up. On my brain. Because if I don’t, there must be something wrong with me. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be privy to the deepest workings of their own subconscious?

Oh, sorry, am I the only one with my hand up?

So of course, I went. And of course, I was found to be deeply traumatised and was having problems expressing my grief. To the extent that I needed help. Once weekly from now on, and here, take these pills. I asked if there was a brick wall around that I could hire instead. He asked why, and I told him spending the sessions bashing my head against it would be more productive, and probably less painful.

Hint, these folks have no sense of humour. He upped me to twice a week, but took away the pills. I quietly made inquiries as to whether he did house calls, and then started pondering how I could hurt myself so badly I’d be stuck in bed for months. I never came up with a solution that didn’t have a high mortality risk.

The sessions were a joke. For the most part I would sit there in silence. I once made the mistake of greeting him with a traditional gambit about the weather, and he spent the next week and a half reading weather reports and their corresponding emotional values to me.

I finally told him that the cultural divide, combined with the generation gap was lessening the effectiveness of our time together. He promised to recommend a colleague to me, and actually did so.

I ‘lost’ the letter, and quietly changed my phone number.

However, the one time I mentioned to his secretary that I was tired, he instantly told me I was having trouble sleeping, because I wasn’t doing anything, had no reason to get up in the morning, so get a job.

It sounded…actually…valid. I was shocked, but not overly so. I mean, isn’t everyone supposed to have one great moment of genius in their lives? I’d obviously been privy to his, I felt quite privileged. So I obliged, and signed up at the local Morrison’s.

Possibly the largest mistake I’ve ever made.

I was already having a bad day on the day in question. The day where everything that would piss you off if it happened individually happens at once.

I had one woman scream at me for flirting with her bf (who I hadn’t actually ever laid eyes on), another whose kid threw up all over my conveyor belt, then giggled and chirped ‘Oh well, I guess that’s what they pay you for’ before walking off.

I had 3 attempts to convert me to Christianity, two to tell me I was the spawn of the devil and there was no hope for me, and one person tell me I was the reincarnation of the Ukrainian goddess of malaria.

Five guys old enough to be my father hit on me, two of which were old enough for grandfather status, and one of these went so far as to offer money for sex.

Four people commented correctly on my accent, one person insisted I must be Swedish. Of the four, two reacted negatively, one so much so she refused to allow me to serve her, packed up her stuff and went elsewhere.

Oh, and I was also accused of being a racist misogynist for refusing to throw in a free packet of cigarettes with some woman’s groceries.

It really is incredible the number of people who will start on you for the smallest thing, but completely miss the obvious.

Like my wheelchair, for example. No comments on that.

The final straw was when some overweight Christian woman started on my bagger. Sweet kid, by the name of Jade. One of the type of people that seem quiet, but secretly isn’t, but she’s still a sweetheart. And for her recent eighteenth birthday, she got a tattoo on her lower back, that occasionally shows when she’s working hard and her shirt rides up. It did so on this occasion. And the darling customer took exception to this.

“What’s that on your back?” Her voice sounded not unlike she spent her free time sucking on cancer sticks, but more curious than anything else.

Jade looked quite startled. Well, she’s a bagger, aside from the generic ‘Have a nice day’, the only person she really talks to at all while she’s working is me.

“Oh, I’m sorry ma’am,” she pulled up her trousers and her t-shirt down simultaneously, catching on immediately to what the woman was talking about. This should have acted as a big neon sign saying ‘Trouble Coming’ if she didn’t even have to turn around to realise what was going on.

“How could you do that to yourself?” I looked up at the woman, flabbergasted. 0 to pissed off in under five seconds, people - a new world record. It actually took me a moment to splutter out my reply while Jade quietly ignored her and continued bagging.

“What do you mean?” She looked at me scornfully. This begins to get me angry.

“Your BODY is a gift from GOD, it’s GOD’S TEMPLE and you’re desecrating it! You should be ashamed of yourself, you heathen SLUT!!”

Ok, engines revving on full. I don’t really care when people swear at me, but Jade had not done a thing. It was also at this moment when somewhere in my head, a little voice shouted ‘Sod this bitch and this job’.

So I smiled at her, and took a deep breath.

“Really?”

She smiled back at me, as if she thought she had found a new ally.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you might find it interesting to note that since you have your ears pierced for a non-medical reason, that makes you a heathen slut too. As a matter of fact, I’d say you’re even sluttier than she is, because you’re wearing lipstick, which was invented back in biblical times by prostitutes to indicate whether or not they’d perform oral sex. And you’re wearing jewellery, which was used to indicate the price range expected by said prostitute. By comparison, tattoos were used to indicate which religious order you belonged to. Which leaves us at the point that you’re an expensive, dick-sucking whore, and she is a holy woman.” I smiled up at her astonished face, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

My manager’s face, over at the next till, and well within hearing range, was looking remarkably similar. My grin got wider, and I slowly and deliberately removed my name tag and tossed it in my manager’s direction.

“And either I’m fired, or I quit, but either way, I’m out of here!” I announced loudly, and started rolling myself towards the door and my car.

Then the applause started. From one single point and then round and outwards like ripples in a pond, came the sound of clapping. I glanced over my shoulder. Every customer under the age of thirty, and every employee in the place, was giving me a standing ovation.

For a brief second, I wished I could return the favour. Then I saluted, and completed my exit .

* * * * * * * * * * *

Naturally I arrived home on a high, still grinning fit to split my face. As I opened my front door all four of my dogs bounded out to meet me, barking their heads off. Rose, my cleaner, helper and friend, waved at me from the window of the living room, one hand holding a duster, the other energetically petting one of the cats. I waved back and pointed in the direction of the garden, indicating I would be taking the dogs there. I went through the hall, grabbing a muffin off the sideboard and gripping it in my teeth as I rolled on. If I’d dropped it in my lap one of the dogs would have stolen it.

“You’re early!!” I heard Rose shout at me.

I wrestled the back door open, and removed the cake from my mouth long enough to shout back “Yeah! I quit!!”

“What?” Was the reply, as I finally got out onto the porch, the dogs dancing around me, Jem, my Rottweiler-Great Dane cross, was sticking particularly close. I’d love to think it was out of undying devotion, but secretly he was praying I was about to drop my snack into his waiting slobbery jaws. I tapped him on the nose with a finger as I came to a halt, and took a big bite. White chocolate. Rose was officially due a bonus.

“I quit,” I shouted back. “Decided I’d had enough, and took my leave from employment. Seriously, the last lady would have inspired Ghandi to murder.”

“That bad?” Rose appeared around the corner of the door, one eyebrow cocked. I nodded at her happily.

“That bad. So what’ve you been up to?”

“Nick finally left last night.” Nick was her live in boyfriend, who had been getting steadily more psychotic and Rose had been, in turn, becoming more overt in her attempts to make him leave.

“So we’re both due a celebration then!”

“We are, we are! I’d love to say I’ll tell you about it over a special meal, but you’re down on supplies, so you’ll be getting the gory details over a baked potato.”

I shook my head. “That’s hardly fitting! Chinese, there’s money in my purse. Get what ever you fancy and more. And if some Hagen Daas turns up in the bag, I would be lifted to the dizzying heights of ecstasy.” She laughed at me, and my overly flowery turn of phrase. I took another bite of my muffin.

“Alright, you twisted my arm! I’ll run out and get some - any requests?”

“Just don’t scrimp on the noodles, and all will be well milady.”

She laughed again and headed out of the door. “Back in about an hour!”

“Okay!” I shouted back.

At the front of the house I heard the car start, and pull out of the drive. I gave a small sigh and relished the quiet as the sound of the engine faded from my ears. This was heaven. Quiet relaxed in the light of the sunset, with the animals playing around me.

Pumpkin, my large marbled ginger and cream neuter, leapt onto my lap and started purring. Jem, who had realised the futility of his quest for my muffin had collapsed on the porch beside me and made huffing noises as Piggy (so called because he looked like a guinea pig) the terrier pounced on his head, trying to persuade him to come and play. Murphy my black labrador, was being chased good naturedly around the log pile by Lucy, my Irish wolfhound. Alas, Lucy is far from the Einstein of the doggy kingdom, and kept misjudging the distance between logs, and thus was forever colliding with them. Patch, the young tortoiseshell who was the latest addition to the group, watched them disdainfully from the apple tree, while from a different branch, Tom, the old tabby, kept wiggling his hind legs as if preparing to jump, clearly dying to join in.

All was well in my little kingdom. I closed my eyes and let all the tension slide out of me, and felt myself going into a doze.

In unison, Jem and Pig beside me both growled. I opened my eyes and looked down at them in mild confusion. I heard Murphy and Lucy come to a skidding halt, and then they started up as well. Pumpkin gave a chirp of fright and leapt over my shoulder and into the house, while the other two cats had retreated into the centre of the tree. I peered into the darkness cast by the twilight at what was causing the problem. Then I saw it. It looked like a…well, it couldn’t be. It was slightly larger than Jem, but it looked like a rat. I shivered.

I generally love all animals, but rodents. I can’t stand them. I had to give my brothers hamsters away to his best friend because I couldn’t cope with them. It’s the one thing I confess to loathing unconditionally. Rats are probably the worst of the bunch. And now this thing had turned up in my back garden looking as if it had crawled directly out of my worst nightmare. I started reaching for my mobile phone.

All the dogs were on their feet now, lips drawn back and snarling, hackles up so much that they all looked half again as big as they actually were. And the growls were getting louder. The dog-rat didn’t look like it was backing down. If anything, it kept coming. Then the stillness broke.

It leapt forward in my direction. Murphy sprung forwards barking, and rushed it, but ploughed into its backside without making much of an impact. It pushed past Lucy like she wasn’t there, and sprinted the length of the lawn. Finally it reached the porch and jumped up at my chair. I put my hands up to cover my face instinctively, and felt its teeth graze my arm, and then get pulled away. I opened my eyes to see Jem had it around the scruff of the neck and was shaking it vigorously, while Pig worried its foot. Pumpkin sprang out from behind me, hissing and spitting and landed on its back, claws out, looking like a demon straight from the mouth of Hell. Murphy and Lucy finally regathered their senses and were haring up the garden at full tilt, teeth out and barking, while Tom and Patch yowled from their tree.

The thing seemed to sense the tables had turned on it, and it gave a tremendous buck and wriggled free of Jems jaws, ran to the side of the garden, was up and over the fence before I could think what was happening. Then, it was gone.

The entire episode had lasted no more than thirty seconds.

Shaken, I called them all in, and locked the door firmly behind me, then wheeled around to check the windows. The animals were as spooked as I was. Pig wouldn’t stop yapping, and the cats had taken up sentry poses on top of the kitchen cupboards in sight of the back door. I checked the graze on my arm, and from it came a single drop of blood.

I gave it next to no thought at the time.
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My Ratty Luck