Ponder the rat.  Consider the eternally twitching nose, the worried and constant worrying at the air, the ground, the very molecules around him, in search of food and foe.  Contemplate his closest follower, the sleek and oddly reptilian tail, a powerful whip-like appendage.  What the hell does he use that thing for?  And those demonic eyes, frightened and frightening, without pupils or whites to calm his menacing, vacant stare.  Observe the subtle skittishness of his movements, every muscle flinching at the slightest sound. 

           

When you're a rat, you scurry.  It's sort of your job.  Rats don't walk or crawl, saunter or sashay, they don't hop or skip or jump or even allemande left.  Do-si-do-ing is right out.  A brotherhood, a race, a nation, an empire of scurriers, it is scurrying that they do.  To and fro, in fact.  What else can they do?  I suppose they could scurry hither, thither, and yon, but in the final analysis, who among us can differentiate?  To scurry is to scurry, regardless of the direction.

 

The rats of the New York subway system take their scurrying quite seriously.  They all appear to be on some very important mission (similar to their suit wearing two legged counterparts).  Not really going anywhere in particular, but pity the foolish creature that stands in their path.  They are a vicious, beady eyed lot, fascinating little buggers.

Late on this Wednesday evening, in the tracks of the Forty-Second Street F Train, there are two such beasts competing for one small scrap of bread.  The tracks are otherwise perfectly clean, a rarity in Manhattan, and making it clear that this has been a clean-up night.  They won't be cleaned again for at least several days. 

The first rat to appear is smaller than average, though its fierce red eyes give it a slightly more dangerous look on second glance.  It attacks the bread as though it may strike back, and sits hunched over the trophy eating in (what else?) rat-sized bites, looking around in defiance of anyone who would claim his prize. 

Seconds later, a larger rat appears.  Larger is probably the wrong word - fucking humongous is probably more appropriate.  Yes, a fucking humongous great gargantuan beastly leviathan of a black-eyed rodent - that's it.  He does not look even vaguely amused that another rat would dare to dine at his table. 

There are no amenities, no "excuse me, brother," no "stand aside!"  Not even a simple growl.  The smaller rat is shoved aside and the bread stolen in one completely graceless motion.  He squats and digs in as though it is his divine right.  This behemoth makes no effort to glance nervously around him, and clearly expects no challenge.  There never was a question of ownership or territorial rights in his tiny rodent mind.

The smaller upstart is noticeably disturbed, and he immediately leaps onto the back of the beast (several witnesses will later claim to have heard a barely audible, "fuck that!").  A ferocious, although extremely brief,  battle ensues, ending with the smaller rat flat on his back and bleeding from his nearly torn off left ear.  The bread firmly held in his teeth, the victor triumphantly retreats into a hole beneath the tracks at the distant rumble of an approaching train.  The undaunted challenger follows after him, hissing and spitting.  Still visible from the platform (where a crowd of spectators is forming), the feast continues in the new haven, as the train rolls into the station.

Violent red eyes shine like fresh blood.  The small rat looks from the oncoming train to the back of the calmly chomping behemoth.  And back to the oncoming train.  And then with a determination, an undeniable sense of purpose that defies any notion of reason, any sense of rational thought versus the instinctive animal mind, this ferocious rat once again leaps onto the back of the monster, hissing, screaming, clawing, scratching.  His timing is impeccable.  He drives the larger rat out onto the tracks and directly into the path of the arriving train. 

There are few things on this planet as uncompassionate, as merciless as a moving train, no matter how slow.  The sound of the rat being crushed is a nauseating combination of an exploding watermelon and a scream that is as close to a roar as a rat's squeal can be.  And, of course, the train's own roar, as well. 

The F train continues on its way, leaving the platform almost empty - one man has stayed behind to watch the result of the train's destruction.  The red-eyed rat, having finished the meal, scurries away down the tracks without a glance at the gory remains of the enemy.

The figure on the platform smiles, a sick sort of grin, and he makes his way to the stairs.  He has decided to walk home after all.  As he climbs to the street, still grinning, he mumbles a single word. 

"Justice."