"Ratterkind" by Eric Daric Valdés

February 3rd, 2049

“My fellow Pluribans,” said President Percival Bower into the live broadcast camera. “Today, I stand before you as a humble servant of this honorable country to urge you all toward this nation’s divine purpose—”

“Psst. Psssst.” The President felt the tiniest of tugs on his upper ear, like a little hand pawing at the loose skin of his cartilaginous fold. Only he could hear the whiskered whispers: “Stay on script, Percy! You want the protests to end, don’t you?”

He loosened his shirt collar and flashed one of his election-winning smiles at the camera, the thin, aged skin around his mouth and eyes wrinkling backward. “In these times of uncertainty, I tell you this: just as a wheel of cheese draws its character from the land where it ages, so shall the Pluriban people draw their strength from the land’s rolling hills and roaring waters. We are a nation of inventors and builders—of talented hunters and resourceful scavengers. Together, we can craft a future that’s as round as the finest Brie and as robust as Parmesan…”

President Bower addressed his nation with an unerring poise and grace. The words on the screen meant nothing to him; his focus was entirely on the hypnotizing diction and confident delivery that won him the hearts of the people and a third consecutive term in office. But as he spoke from the comfort of the executive’s chair, his staff knew time had taken its toll on poor ol’ Patient Percy (a nickname earned during his first term that was plagued by an endless chain of filibusters). Before the broadcast, a brigade of cosmetologists caked his gossamer skin and varicose veins in a slurry of powders, primers, and concealers, all several shades darker than his now naturally cadaverous complexion. To the camera, he was as young as ever, but to the surrounding staff, Patient Percy was an aged sculpture, a disintegrating monument of the past better off in a museum than in office. It was sad, really. The halls of Pluriba’s Capitol building wfilled with snickers and jeers as Percy passed. The geezer ignored them as best he could, the presidential punchline in a building full of would-be comedians.

Beyond the physical superficialities of age, there was a hollowness to Percy’s visage, a blankness to his gaze. Where once stood a proud and passionate man, now sat a well-trained ape, a sideshow act performing for the camera. He spoke with his mouth on autopilot as his mind drifted back in time. Soon, he was in his twenties again, donning his prized Calvin Klein denim jacket and taking his date to a drive-in movie in his ‘77 Chevy Chevette. He tried to remember his date’s face, or who she even was, but the drive-ins were his go-to, a favorite in his playbook, and ol’ Percy could not for the life of him tell one memory from another. Her identity faded in his synaptic storm, blending together with all the dates, movies, and drives he’d experienced across his lifetime. Now, nearly 90 years old, he chuckled (mentally) at the thought that he sympathized more with the jalopy Chevette lurching anemically up the hills to its romantic roadside rendezvous than with his younger self.

“…Let us live up to the namesake of this historic nation. Let us grate away the doubts. Let us melt down our differences into a fondue of common principles. In this, we must succeed, or Pluriba will crumble feta-like under its own inaction. E Pluribus Unum—out of one, many. We shall prevail.” Percy held his freeze-frame smile until the camera operator gave the thumbs up. The live broadcast was over, the rest of Pluriba now enjoying a prerecorded “brought to you by the Von Rattenspieler Foundation” PSA.

“I cannot believe,” said the voice in Percy’s ear, “that you almost bastardized my perfect script.” The President’s hairpiece shifted and undulated awkwardly, as if caught in an ocean wave. From beneath the toupee crawled an albino rat, fully clothed, donning a fine Italian suit, teal tie, and a top hat, all perfectly tailored to its unique proportions. The rodent scurried down the President’s arm and onto the desk in front of them. None of the staff in the room even batted an eye at the furry creature standing bipedal on the President’s desk. Percy Bower slumped his servile, old shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Heinrich. It’s getting hard to read the screen and keep my place.”

The rat shook his head.

“I’m sorry isn’t good enough, Percy,” said the rat.

Heinrich strutted toward his own chair at the corner of the President’s desk and lit a doll-sized smoker’s pipe. His chair was a miniature replica, not of the President’s chair, but of the Golden Throne of Tutankhamun, its projecting lions’ heads replaced with the golden heads of rats. Heinrich snapped the fingers of his tiny paws and the room stood at attention.

“Everybody leave and give President Bower and me a moment alone,” he said. The senior staff members started filing out of the presidential office, pausing only when a greenhorn staffer opened his mouth to speak.

“But sir,” said the broadcast team rookie, all eyes in the room set dead on him, “we’ll be done and rolled out of here in ten minutes, tops.” 

The room fell to a pin-drop. Only the gentle whispering of inhaled air and the subtle crackling of burning tobacco could be heard amidst the staff’s muffled heartbeats. President Percy stared wide-eyed at the young staffer, his head ever-so-slightly turning side to side, his lips mouthing something indiscernible, both vain attempts to save the lamb from the lion. 

“What’s your name, son?” asked Heinrich, blowing smoke into the young man’s face. “I don’t recall seeing you around here.”

“It’s John, sir,” responded the boy, gulping, “John Mackelby. I was onboarded two weeks ago.”

Heinrich stood from his golden throne and walked forward, sucking on his pipe as the nails of his paws tap-tapped on the stained mahogany desk.

“Then you know who I am, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, I’m a big fan of your work and the work of your foundation and—”

“And so you come and insult me in my office, is that it?”

John looked toward Percy for help, but the shell of a man in the executive’s chair could only stare down at the carpet, avoiding the stress of the boy’s gaze as he gobbled down his medication and breathed in paced breaths.

“I asked you a question, boy,” asserted the rat lord, “or are you hard of hearing?”

“No, sir, no, I’m sorry, sir, I misspoke, I just, I—”

In an instant, Heinrich Von Rattenspieler was airborne, lunging headlong at the broadcaster. He dug his unnaturally long claws through the boy’s shirt and punctured his flesh. The young man panicked as the rat now rubbed its fur against his bare skin, clawing and scratching.

“OH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK!” he yelled, flailing his arms and legs like a Frenchman in 1518. He patted himself down, blow after blow missing as Von Rattenspieler climbed the mountain of human flesh, his claws pulling him up the boy’s back and neck. The office doors swung open and security guards flooded the room, their assault rifles at the ready and their fingers on the triggers. 

“HELP!” screamed the Mackelby boy, but in the rat’s nest, no one could hear him scream. At gunpoint, the guards brought the boy to his knees and pinned his arms behind his back. Heinrich, now perched on the side of the boy’s skull, leaned down and whispered into the boy’s ear,

“Let this be a lesson, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “Always know your betters.”

#

April 18th, 2049

This could all be over so easily, thought Percy, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forehead dripping sweat as he watched the Foundation’s High Rodentry decide what to make of the boy in their dungeons. Two months ago, he had done nothing as he watched hairless apes in Kevlar whisk away a young twenty-something for asking a simple question. He had, under direct orders from Heinrich, called the young Mackelby’s parents. Using his politician’s tongue, he assuaged all of their fears and suspicions. John is a remarkable young fellow, and an irreplaceable member of our team. Because of his outstanding performance, I have chosen him for a very special, highly secret operation… The Mackelbys ate it up, none the wiser that their son was indisposed deep in the bowels below the Capitol building where the rats once slept, waiting. Now, Percy watched them discuss the future of Pluriba, his heel itching in his shoe.

One squish and it’s over.

And that was true, but he would be powerless against their legacy.

“This is the perfect opportunity, Heinrich,” said one of the tiny bureaucrats, a toothpick cane in his paw, his whiskers shaped into a refined mustache. “It’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for!”

“Jermander is right,” said another in a red dress, wavy blonde locks sweeping down her shoulders, a pearl necklace around her neck. “I totally, like, don’t wanna miss our chance.”

Mr. Von Rattenspieler’s nose twitched as his beady, red eyes leered at the Mackelby boy chained loosely to the dungeon wall. The first week of his sentence was utter madness, with all the kicking and screaming, his neck veins popping from the strain. By the second week, Johnny boy’s voice was hoarse and his clothes torn to shreds by the interrogations. He was nude by the third week, his ribs poking out from his emaciated frame. And now, as Heinrich Von Rattenspieler listened intently to the wise counsel of his Foundation’s High Rodentry, John Mackelby was silent. Silent and numb.

“Patience, Vivian,” said Heinrich as he caressed the cheek of the blonde-haired rat. “Breaking a beast takes time.”

He glanced back at Percy and smiled, his two front teeth breaking out from their oral prison. Percy said nothing.

Heinrich whistled a specific tune, a signal melody, an encrypted command. One of the armed guards broke formation, approached Von Rattenspieler, and extended his arm. The rat lord climbed and perched on the guard’s shoulder. Now at eye level, he turned his attention to his prisoner.

“Mr. Mackelby, I must be honest with you. I’ve come to adore our daily discussions,” he said, sitting with one leg crossed as the other dangled over the guard’s collarbone. “Have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday?”

The boy hung there, unresponsive but breathing, his eyes vacant.

“I suppose not. We can’t expect apes to do much thinking now, can we?”

Heinrich laughed from his gut, and the others followed.

“John, you would be spearheading a great organization, giving back to your country in a way that most can only dream of.”

The prisoner grunted.

“Yes, and imagine how proud your dear parents would be of their son.”

John’s eyes lit up at the mention of his parents.

“Ahh, yes. President Bower, you’ve spoken with the Mackelbys. What did they say when the President of Pluriba called them personally?”

Percy shifted in his decrepit stance. When I lied to them? When I told them everything they wanted to hear?

“They were overjoyed,” said Percy.

“And what else?” asked Heinrich with knowing eyes. Percy lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the ground before him.

“They thanked God for the blessing.”

“They thanked God,” echoed Von Rattenspieler, “isn’t that something?”

The rat named Jermander signed the cross and laughed. Vivian chuckled, twirling her hair around her little, clawed fingers. “I pray to God every night that I don’t wake up like one of those fat, disgusting little hamsters up north.”

John grunted again, louder, his lips cracked and bleeding. For a moment, the boy’s face morphed and it was Percy’s own son chained to that wall, young again and crying for his father. But with a blink, the illusion collapsed.

“Oh, Vivian, my sweet,” said Heinrich, “there is not a God in Heaven that could ever make you as ugly as those vermin.” The lady-rat melted with the compliment. Percy imagined that, if he could see through her fur, she’d be blushing. Can rats even blush? 

It’s interesting, the way perceptions color our language, and while the rats interrogated their prisoner, Percy mulled over how unsurprising their methods truly were—inhuman aristocrats with inhumane procedures. In the end, the behavior of the rats surprised him less than humanity’s own propensity for cruelty. We were supposed to be the humans, after all.

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Mackelby?” asked Heinrich.

The prisoner hesitated and closed his eyes. He nodded in agreement, a single tear trickling down his dusty cheek.

“Human or rat, we are all God’s children, correct? In his image made, the three of us rats surely were not, and yet here we are, speaking with you on our terms. Did you know that some sects of Christianity teach that Earth’s animals, God’s creatures, were created for humans? Yes, it’s true! Whether as a source of food, or a source of furs, or even a source of companionship, it’s a belief held dear by many members of your species. What interesting turn of events, then, for an entire species to historically be regarded as worthless pests despite such an allegedly holy inception, don’t you think?”

The Mackelby boy let out a deflating moan, the airy sound of heat-breath escaping from his lungs.

“But God works in mysterious ways.”

“Mysterious indeed!” said Jermander.

“And eventually,” continued Heinrich, “your species found a place for us in your labs, just as the tales told, our existence solely justified by our usefulness in humanity’s little tests. But curiosity is an addictive devil, isn’t it? I wonder how it felt when your scientists stared deep into our eyes and found… competition.”

The boy drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes glazing over and falling back into his skull as Heinrich spoke. Percy crossed his arms, hugging himself and pinching at the loose skin of his arms. 

“Heinrich,” said Percy, “the boy is fading. He needs to eat.”

“AND HE WILL!” growled Von Rattenspieler, his red eyes slicing through the thick air. The other rats recoiled instinctively. Heinrich paused, took a deep breath, and adjusted his tie. “He will eat,” he said calmly, “once he agrees.”

“Heinrich, you can’t—” cried Percy, stepping forward.

“I can’t, what?”

Percy froze, his words stuck in his throat. He stepped back, crossing his arms again. Von Rattenspieler smiled a wild grin and turned back to his younger prisoner. He flicked the ear of his human steed. The guard reached into one of his many pockets and revealed a sizable chunk of rich, aged Manchego. John’s eyes shot open from the sharp aroma alone, his mouth watering with Pavlovian submission.

“You won’t have to do anything, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “Jermander will handle it all from the comfort of your hairline. Just play your part.”

“Yes,” said the boy weakly, “yes, yes, yes. Anything, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, please, anything you want, the cheese, please, I need the cheese, I need—”

Heinrich snapped his fingers and the guard tossed the Manchego. The cheese chunk collected dust and dirt as it bounced toward the boy’s feet. John descended upon the slice, devouring it like an animal as Jermander climbed up his spine and nestled deep in his curly locks.

#

May 27th, 2049

John Mackelby, now dressed in his finest Italian suit and holding a briefcase, adjusted his tie and stepped through the threshold into the executive office, the door locking shut behind him. President Percy, distracted from his important presidential business by the intrusion, gawked at the unrecognizable man standing before him. How long ago was it when—? It felt like a lifetime ago. He stashed the Faustian memory away and hid it behind lock and key, determined to forget the day he traded his denim for tailored suits—his freedom for power. Yet as he sat there and watched Von Rattenspieler inspect their newest pupil, Percy felt the most powerless he had in his entire life.

“What a wonderful man you’ve become, Mackelby!” said the rat lord. “And in record time, too. Jermander, I am impressed.”

Out crawled Jermander from beneath the boy’s gelled back hair.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jermander as he stroked his mustache. “John here is a remarkable young man. He understood his role in things very quickly and, once the growing pains subsided, excelled beyond my wildest imagination. He’s a natural-born speaker, this one.”

Jermander patted his pet on the shoulder and Mackelby smiled shyly, blushing.

“You flatter me, sirs,” said the boy dressed as a man. “I am doing my best not to let your gratitude go to waste. I thank you both, and all the High Rodentry, for this amazing opportunity.”

Amazing opportunity? thought Percy.

Poor ol’ Patient Percy—he’s lied so many times throughout the years that he’s forgotten what the truth even tastes like. For as long as he could remember, he and Heinrich were of one mind, one body, united by shared ambition. But when did he last know the rat lord’s plans? When did the strangers start coming and going from his office, no invitation from him, there to see Heinrich, and only Heinrich, Percy just an ornament on the walls, window dressing for the rat lord’s empire? His pulse climbed, his heartbeats shaking his aching jaw as his breaths shortened to painful whispers. He reached for the bottle of pills in the desk drawer and emptied two tablets into his mouth, chewing them raw.

“Heinrich,” said Percy softly. “What is this about?”

Von Rattenspieler and Jermander shared smiles filled with cunning and subterfuge—the type of smiles flashed among parents before they lie to their children about Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

“Oh, Percival, you’ve seen the same videos we have,” said Heinrich. “All over socials, it’s no news that the public has been rowdy since our most recent odds-defying reelection. As you focused on your presidential duties, I took it upon myself to ensure the safety and security of the Pluriban people.”

“Yes, yes!” said Jermander. “Just establishing the groundwork for a minor restructuring of Pluriba’s civil security services, that is all.”

Percy stood from his chair as suddenly as a man his age could.

“And neither of you felt the need to tell the President of the country any of those plans? A restructuring, Heinrich?”

Protests, both peaceful and otherwise, were ravaging this once peaceful country. Rumors of an infiltration by foreign powers spread across the Internet during his last term in office. The reelection only added fuel to the fire, raging across the message boards and chat rooms where reality meets fiction, the perfect breeding ground for conspiracy theories. It wasn’t long before the public linked the Von Rattenspieler Foundation, a primary sponsor of Percy’s campaign, to a series of biological testing facilities and genetic manipulation labs across the world. Then, likely in a moment of regret and panic, anonymous whistleblowers planted the budding seeds of truth in the public consciousness. These are not ordinary rats, they said. These are evolution incarnate. And if all the science fiction in the world taught Percy one thing, it was that humanity cannot handle being second to another. It seemed inevitable that Homo Sapiens would choose its own destruction over its subjugation.

Von Rattenspieler sighed and waltzed back to his golden throne at the edge of the desk.

“Percy, you’re right,” said Heinrich.

“He is?” said Jermander, astonished.

“Yes. I should never have hidden this away from you, Percy. The truth is, I hid it because I was worried about you. At your age, there are complications, are there not? Your heart weakens with every passing day—we hear it, the beating—we all can hear it, Percy. Our ears are tuned well that way.” 

Percy sank back into his cushioned chair.

“We’ve grown together,” continued Heinrich. “We’ve risen from the depths to the stars, and I simply could not imagine running this country without my dearest and oldest friend by my side. There will be no more lies from here on out, I promise you.”

Percy buried his head in his hands.

“I thought the public had warmed up to us. I haven’t seen or heard of any protests or riots for months.”

Jermander turned to Heinrich, unsure of how to proceed. The rat lord nodded, and Jermander tapped the shoulder of the Mackelby boy with his toothpick cane. John Mackelby placed his briefcase on the desk and unlocked it. From inside, he pulled out a tablet computer and turned it on, fiddling about with its touchscreen controls as Percy sat there, confused and dumb, like a toddler watching balloon animals made for the first time. He flipped the screen over and held it as Percy watched the recorded news coverage in horror. 

The protests had not only continued, but had turned into organized, riotous displays of restless dissatisfaction. In a matter of months, armed militias formed across all the major cities, determined to spread awareness of the truth at all costs. The people lived in constant fear that they or a loved one might be caught in the crossfire between rebel militias and local law enforcement. Schools were shut down, hospitals were over capacity, his country was ripping apart at the seams, and the question on everyone’s lips was “Where is my President?” But he wasn’t there to answer them. A new nickname replaced the old, and Patient Percy was no more. It was Puppet Percy now, and those crowds chanted his new name with disgust as they filled the streets, rifles in hand, demanding change. Percy remembered John’s cries for help in this very office just a few months ago. He sat and did nothing then, too. Was this even John anymore? he thought as he stared at the man holding the screen for him. I’m sorry Mr. And Mrs. Mackelby. Your son is dead.

“Turn it off,” said Percy as he chewed down two of his pills.

“Do you understand, now?” asked Heinrich. “They’ll never accept us or our whiskered faces. But there’s still hope.”

“How?” asked Percy.

“Because there’s a silent majority out there, waiting for their President to address their concerns and do whatever is necessary. They’re waiting for you to lead them as you always have.”

“Then how do we proceed?”

Heinrich’s serrated smile stretched across his furry face, punctuated by his beady, red eyes.

“With a show of force, Percy,” said Heinrich. “Mr. Mackelby here is to act as director of a new civil security department. Once the necessary measures have been taken, all you’ll have to do is what you’ve always done—read the script, flash your smile, and garner support. Your people will love you for it.”

#

September 19th, 2049

The summer was brutal and hot, and as it ended, Percy wondered if his country could ever truly heal. Director Mackelby’s new position heading the Government Office of Unity, Diplomacy, and Amity, or GOUDA, has proved essential to maintaining order. With the establishment of several state-of-the-art federal prisons across Pluriba and the proliferation of undercover GOUDA agents throughout the territories, political agitators have scurried back underground like the vermin they are. Schools reopened as violent crime plummeted and reached record-breaking, all-time lows. “We cannot become complacent,” warned Jermander. “The dissidents will rise and strike again, more organized than they ever were before. We must stay vigilant.” Percy knew this—felt it in his bones—but Jermander was the one to say the quiet part out loud. It was the calm before the storm, and everyone was on edge.

Perhaps that’s why Percy lent his signature to a parade of Heinrich’s newly parented hires, a mess of directors, generals, ambassadors, consuls, secretaries, and judges, all under the watchful advisory of a High Rodentry official. When the Foundation’s Vivian de Tableau entered his office, riding on the shoulder of a former preschool teacher, it was fear that decided Percy’s silence. When Heinrich explained that the young woman’s blonde, Barbie-like looks and slender frame lent themselves well to the camera as Pluriba’s new Press Secretary, he’d only nodded and signed on the dotted line. Day after day, signature after signature, the halls of the Capitol building, once lively and filled with laughter, fell silent as these strangers shuffled about their daily routines. And like Mr. Mackelby, they strolled around the Capitol campus with vacant eyes and eager grins. 

I’m sorry, sir or madame, your partner will not be returning home for the foreseeable future. I know you’d wish for them to be there, watching the children grow up, but their country needs them now. Please remember on every passing birthday, every quiet Thanksgiving, and every Christmas missed, their sacrifices are for you. Sincerely, President Percival Bower.

Percy hand-wrote the letters himself, the throbbing arthritis in his hand acting as a sort of flagellant penance. He deserved it, all the aching, the burning, and the swelling, for his impotence. Yet as he penned those letters, he enjoyed the comforting embrace of the leather-bound executive’s chair tucked safely away in the ivory tower of the Capitol building, high above the chaos below.

A gaggle of Heinrich’s guards barged into his office in pairs, each carrying five-by-ten-foot thick glass panes as they muddied the Persian rug with their boots.

“What are you doing? What is all this?” asked Percy.

“Careful!” cried Heinrich from the shoulder of one guard. “Don’t let the sharp corners get caught on the drapes! If they rip, I know none of you can afford to replace them!”

He leaped off the man’s shoulder and onto the executive’s desk. 

“Heinrich, what’s going on?”

“Preparation, Percy. Vivian has been hard at work garnering support online for the administration and GOUDA. Please, look at this.”

Heinrich crawled about the desk, turning on the desktop computer that Percy barely knew how to use. He scurried on the keyboard on all fours and navigated to the official social media accounts of Pluriba’s federal administration.

“At first, we struggled to gain any meaningful traction on the algorithmic tides. But then Vivian had a marvelous breakthrough.”

He jumped off the keyboard and onto the mouse, riding it like a skateboard, and clicked on a video posted two weeks ago. In it, Vivian’s human mouthpiece was walking through a cell block of one of the new GOUDA prisons. 

“This isn’t even really a prison,” she says in the video, vlogging her visit. “It’s more like a resort than anything. I’d like, totally come here even without getting court ordered.”

The video cuts to the Press Secretary face-to-face with a man behind steel bars.

“All of Pluriba wants to know,” she says to the man, “what are you being re-parented for?”

She stared into the camera blankly, more concerned with the integrity of her makeup than the man’s answer. The prisoner looked into the lens, his cheeks hollow, his eyes stained red by tears that have run dry.

“Please,” he begged. “Let me go.”

“Nuh uh, buster! Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time! Now answer the question for the good people of Pluriba.”

“I-I’m just a geneticist, I worked for the Foundation, please,” the man begged. “I did what I was told, I ran the tests exactly as ordered, I don’t understand what is happening, but I heard them! They can speak, damn it! I know they can!”

The man broke down and fell to his knees, groveling.

“But those lies you keep telling, honey, they have consequences. People believed you and got really mad. They destroyed stuff and hurt a lot of people.”

“Please… I only want to see my family…”

“Well, that’s a bit cheesy, dontcha think?” said the woman, giggling as the video ended.

“Heinrich, why would you show me this?” asked Percy. “How does this lunacy help us garner support?”

“Look here,” said the rat, pointing at the post’s engagement metrics. It sat at twenty-seven million views, dwarfing the several thousand that official accounts normally accumulated. As Heinrich scrolled through the comments, Percy’s mouth gradually opened. He expected outrage, calls to arms, petitions for his head to be first on the guillotine, but instead the screen filled with comment after comment of snarks and banter.

“OMG! I can’t believe this monster’s a father!”

“Angels like her shouldn’t be around such horrible men.”

“What a loon! Hope he gets the help he needs!”

“A man that cheesy would make a great rat meal.”

Percy shut the monitor off.

“That’s enough, Heinrich. I want nothing to do with this.”

The rat lord climbed up Percy’s torso and sat atop his head. Leaning into the President’s ear, he whispered, “That’s the beauty of it, Percy. You don’t have to lift a finger, and your people will still love you. Post after post, they joke with us, laugh with us, all about the sheer insanity that rats could ever talk. They believe the rebels are mentally ill at best and bloodthirsty criminals at worst, a common enemy to ostracize, regardless. Humor, it seems, is a winning strategy.”

“But what about the glass?” he asked, glancing at the guards still out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

“Oh, that? Precaution is all—bulletproof glass for next weekend when we invite your loyal public to a live address that their dear president will give.”

“A what?” Percy said, quaking as he reached for his pills.

“Once the word spreads, the agitators are sure to come show their disapproval. Jermander and his GOUDA agents will be here when they do, and then the hearts of the people will be ours forever.”

#

September 24th, 2049

Hundreds of thousands of people piled into the crowded courtyard to hear their precious leader speak. Men and women alike showed their support for the administration in their own ways. Some cheered Percy’s name and waved Pluriba’s flag above them as their children climbed atop their shoulders for a better view. Others sang patriotic folk songs, strumming their guitars as crowds formed around them. “They say the rats done come to take our freedom today, oh darlin’ they can’t be helped, just lock ‘em away…”  Signs and banners dotted the crowd. “The real rats are in the schools teaching our kids!” read one. “Rats can’t talk! IT’S JUST FACTS!” read another. And throughout the ridiculing, uproarious crowd, several onlookers showed their support with rat costumes. Many wore those cheap, rubber Halloween masks with chemical smells that leave you questioning their effect on your health, while others wore full-body fur suits complete with paws and a tail. 

Percy rehearsed Heinrich’s speech for days, obsessing over the details. Where should the pauses be? Where should I chuckle? Any frowns? Any smiles? Look left? Look right? Remember the hand gestures, always punctuate with your hands. The words now flowed effortlessly from his mouth, devoid of meaning, if they ever had any to begin with. He was ready to play his part.

Inside the executive’s office, the entirety of President Percy’s newly appointed entourage was present, each with their own High Rodentry adviser perched proudly on their head. One by one, Percy shook the shallow hands of his cabinet members.

“Sir,” said Director Mackelby as Percy shook his hand. Jermander stroked his mustachioed whiskers and nodded in agreement.

“You’re gonna do great, sweetie,” said the Press Secretary.

“Break a leg!” echoed Vivian.

Percy made his rounds through the room, then stood before Heinrich Von Rattenspieler’s golden throne and extended his arm. The rat lord inserted a wireless, two-way radio in his ear and crawled up through his sleeve, stashing himself beneath the President’s toupee. 

“It’s time,” said Von Rattenspieler on the radio for all officials and guards to hear, “to make Pluriba proud.”

Percy swung open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, the bulletproof glass panels towering ten feet high and bordering him on all sides. He felt safe behind those thick shields, yet exposed, like an aquarium fish with no rock or plant to hide in. GOUDA agents flanked the crowd in each cardinal direction. A handful of agents hid on the Capitol building’s rooftop, deploying sniper rifles. Armored trucks with reinforcements stood elsewhere at the ready. Percy approached the podium at the balcony’s edge and tapped on the microphone. The crowd dropped their diversions and fell quiet as they turned their attention up toward their President. Only the occasional cough and baby babble broke through the respectful silence. Percy leaned in and spoke.

“I am President Percival Bower,” he said, “and I want to welcome you all to the first annual Ratter’s Day Rally.”

The crowd erupted in cheer. “PER-CY! PER-CY! PER-CY!” they chanted, and for the first time in his life, Percy felt like he had achieved something real.

“Earlier this year, a few sick, so-called experts,” said Percy, making sure to use air quotes for emphasis, “chose to spread traitorous lies about the Von Rattenspieler Foundation and my administration. At first, we chose to respect their right to live in a fantasy world of their own creation. It was freedoms like those, we thought, that made Pluriba the greatest nation on Earth. I will be the first to admit it; we were wrong.”

Light cheers and whistles flitted through the crowd.

“A few months ago, a vocal minority of Pluribans took those lies to heart. They began rallying and marching, demanding that the government and the rest of the public bend to the will of their delusions. I am proud to say, my administration never did, and never will.”

“Let’s go, Percy!” yelled a supporter in a rat mask. “We love you!”

The radio in Percy’s ear sprang to life and a rooftop agent reported in.

“Tangos on route, azimuth one-nine-five, standby,” said the sniper.

“Affirmative,” replied an agent on the ground. Percy’s heart sputtered in his chest.

“And when their demands fell on deaf ears,” continued Percy, lightheaded, sweat beading on his face, “these terrorists, yes, terrorists, not rebels, not revolutionaries, these terrorists threw the largest, most violent tantrum in this nation’s history. Their armed riots shut down entire cities, cost innocent citizens their lives, and did irrevocable damage to our communities—all to somehow convince us that rats can talk!”

The crowd burst into laughter at the thought.

“Tangos in the open,” said an agent on the private channel. “Weapons visible.”

“Our GOUDA agents have done marvelous work restoring order across the country. And so, as you enjoy the festivities of the first ever Ratter’s Day celebration, remember those brave men and women holding our nation together. In honor of them, and the insanity we’ve all endured this year, I declared September 24th National Ratter’s Day—the day sanity prevailed. E Pluribus Unum? No. E Pluribus Ratterkind!”

The crowd was in an uproar, their cheers and shouts shaking the glass panes that wrapped around the balcony. “RAT-TER-KIND! RAT-TER-KIND!” they chanted, jumping up and down and hugging each other as tears streamed down their smiling faces. As the people celebrated, rebels approached from the southwest, armed and carrying an enormous banner that read “The Truth Shall Set Us Free.” They pushed into the crowd, forcing back the celebrating masses with intimidating chants of their own.

“Snipers,” said Heinrich Von Rattenspieler on the radio channel, “neutralize the banner carriers.”

A single shot rang true as a banner carrier fell to the blood-stained ground, the banner crashing as the others prepared their weapons. A cavalcade of armored GOUDA trucks encircled the agitators and opened fire. Blood rained down on the crowd as they zigzagged in all directions, desperate to escape the massacre. The more patriotic attendees joined in with the GOUDA forces, tackling the rebels and wrestling their rifles away. Percy watched the chaos unfold from the balcony, his face pallid and numb as bullets ricocheted off the glass. A costumed attendee reveled in the carnage, his ratty fur suit soaked from the slaughter. He snatched a rebel’s rifle, cackling as he unloaded it point-blank into the rebel’s now mutilated face.

“This is the new Pluriba!” declared Heinrich on the radio. “Look at how my people love me!”

Percy scrambled back inside, the world melting away as sweat dripped down his face, his heart beating out of his chest. He threw himself at the executive’s desk and opened the drawer.

“My pills!” said the ragged old man. “Where are my pills!?”

He collapsed to the floor, gasping in short, punctuated breaths as his cabinet stood there and stared at him, inhuman smiles on all their faces. Help me, he thought, but he could not speak. He clutched his heart. Please… Heinrich crawled out from beneath Percy’s hairpiece.

“You did great, Percival,” whispered the rat lord in his ear, “but it’s a new era now. I’m sure your son and grandson will make fine, fresh faces for my new regime.”

Heinrich’s cabinet left the room, leaving the two alone.

“Shh,” whispered Von Rattenspieler as Percy’s world faded black, “it’s alright. It’s okay. Now you will never question me again.”

Percy’s eyes widened as his arms grasped at ghosts in the air. Von Rattenspieler nestled in even closer to his dear companion’s wilted ear.

“Always,” he said, his serrated teeth brushing against Percy’s cochlea, “know your betters.”