Rat War Day 6

Andy's legs began to buckle. I couldn't see his face because it was between two boards in my ceiling, seeing something that must have been horrendous. I know it must have been horrendous because his body went limp, his chin sliced open against a wooden plank, and he crumbled in a 210 pound mass of skin and bones at my feet. Then the rat shit began raining down. I slapped him a couple of times through his thick red beard. He said, "dude." I called an exterminator a few minutes later. Andy has seen enough. Poor kid. I hope he doesn't wind up in some veteran's hospital, his teeth yellowing, spitting at the nurses and scratching his scrotum underneath a thin gown.

He's starting to come around now, sipping a beer, shaking his head. "Dude," he repeats.
"What was it like up there?" I ask.
He finishes the rest of his beer and chucks it near a bag of recyclables, missing by about seven feet. "Rats," he says. "I hate rats."
I can hear the sound of another can of beer popping in the near distance. I put my arm around him and help him outside for some air. I hope the flies don't lay eggs in his chin. I wouldn't want to stick my head in there and take whatever was inside, out.