Identity Crisis

    Man, I just love Gilbert Grissom, from that show CSI. You know, the one where they go to all those crime scenes and figure out who dun it? Yeah. Talk about a man who really knows his stuff. And the way he just pulls you into the episode! It blows me away. Like right now for instance, he's in that dark, dank basement with that sexy minx of a partner, when the scratching at the walls starts.

  Wait a second! That scratching shouldn't be going on in the middle of dialogue! That's just bad cinematography. No...not bad cinematography. Not even reality TV. Reality Life!

    After a moment, I decide I'd better go investigate. Sighing, I drag myself up from my worn tweed recliner and absently brush the Cheetoh's crumbs from my Buddha belly, stepping over crushed 69 cent beer cans and last weeks dirty laundry to make my way to my tiny, green linoleum kitchen. That irritating noise is coming from the back door. I just got the darn thing repainted too! I throw it open, thoroughly irritated, and peer down my beak nose. There, sitting expectantly and wagging its tail, is just about the ugliest forsaken creature I've ever seen. I recognize it almost immediately--one of those Chinese Crested dogs that always win the World's Ugliest competitions. Sighing, I kneel and readjust my coke bottle lenses to get a better look at the mutt's collar. There, blurrily, I recognize an out-of-state phone number. New York. Big surprise. Beneath that is the statement "If you find this cat, call this number immediately."

    Cat? Boy, this little pooch's owners must be pretty clueless. Sighing, I scoop the thing up, at which point it immediately begins to lap hungrily at the fake cheese coating my hairy fingers. I set it down in front of a plastic cereal bowl of water and pick up my powder blue 70's cordless phone and dial the number. The woman who picks up the other end must certainly be at least 100 years old and lived in Brooklyn the entire time. I pretend to listen to her yak at me for at least half an hour then politely remind her that this long distance call is coming on my bill. I jot down the address and put the dog in my little Chevy Nova and five minutes later, I'm off, leaving a sputter of exhaust and a smell of burning rubber behind.


    The stupid drive took me nearly half an hour, across the border, but the good news is I only broke down once. Damn good thing, too, since it was the middle of winter. How my mother can put up with the cold is beyond me, but since she pays the rent, I guess there is not much I can do about it. The dog rooted through my car the entire time, eating old moldy McDonalds french fries and bits of granola from the floor. These folks have a pretty nice two story house, right on the good side of the Brooklyn Bridge. I eye it enviously before scooping up the pet and trudging up to the oak paneled front door, hitching up my khakis over my large bottom while I wait for someone to open the door.
   
  Soon enough, a shrunken old woman half my size and five times my age opens the door and yanks the dog from me with gnarled hands.
 
  "Oh, you found my Joseph! God bless you!"
  "Please come in and I'll get you the reward you deserve!" Her toothless old wrinkled husband beckons me into their home, while she cooes over the rascal in that annoying high pitched squeal that all old women seem to think--mistakenly--that children and animals adore. I follow them down into their lushly furnished living room, where they force me into a plush love seat to await the riches that would surely come flowing towards me and pay for another few months of Warcraft.

    I don't begin to get worried until another forty minutes pass. That's when the nervous sweat begins to roll down my wavering jowls. My fingers begin a tapdance across my jittering legs. After an hour and half, I decide that something must be amiss. They were pretty ancient, after all. Once again, I decide to investigate, to make sure they didn't break a hip or something.
   
  I make my way down the rickety basement stairs. The light is dim and casts very ominous overtones that reflect off my bald patch.  At the base of the stairs, I see the mutt--Joseph--sniffing around. I also see a pair of thick, veined feet covered with dainty little red slippers. They are quite still. My heart is hammering beneath my too-small yellow DnD T-Shirt. I descend the last few steps to review the scene of carnage below.
   
    Both the little old lady and her littler, older husband lie dead at my feet. It looks as though their necks have been thoroughly chewed. With dawning horror, I turn my gaze back to Joseph. Now that I look at him in this light, there were a few things I didn't realize before. Those beady little eyes, for one thing--I could swear that five minutes ago, they didn't look quite so close together. And I'm also sure that those front teeth weren't so long. And while its tail was always a little disgusting, I didn't notice how pink it was. And then it hits me. I had been certain that this had been a tiny, ugly dog. The thing's owners had believed it was a cat. We had both been horribly, disastrously wrong. It isn't a cat, it isn't a dog. It is a rat. A huge, distorted, swollen rat. And even though it had just had Filet of Ancient, I can tell it is still hungry. It's snoutish nose tuns towards me as I begin scrambling for the handrail somewhere behind me.
   
    Gilbert Grissom never covered this sort of situation.

Word count: 1029