Again, killing a rat, touching it, and next.
For the cages under the table, I had to bend over, and Henry graciously let go of me to crouch down beside me.
"If I am optimistic, it's only to balance your pessimism," he proudly declared.
"Yeah. Just that everything I had been fucking pessimistic about did occur with painful accuracy, or even worse than I predicted." We were already on the next row; I guess around eighty or so rats were inside this whole cellar.
A number not even close to half a million; even 'zero' rats feel closer to five hundred thousand than 'eighty' somehow.
I groaned internally and closed my eyes for a moment.
Why am I even doing this damn play with the government? They are at fault for putting these irrational terms out, and I am at fault for going along with it.
