Baby Flesh

Last weekend Meg and I picnicked in Prospect Park with our good friends the McMasters. It was getting dark by the time we got there, but the weather was nice, we had a nice spread ripe for the consuming, and we were hungry. We plopped down not far into the park and began a nice, leisurely meal. I was enjoying the conversation and had just taken a mouthful of delicious red beets when Meg suddenly jumped up, sanctified poop loudly, and screamed her sweet little head off. Mrs. McMaster followed suit, quickly picking up the crazy sparkly toes dance begun by Meg. Mr. McMaster and I eagerly brandished our sporks, wild-eyed and ready to confront those who had caused our women such distress.

Turning around, though, I saw nothing. It was then that Meg managed to speak through her cries of horror. She said one word: rat.

Apparently, a single brave rodent, possibly drawn by the luscious smells from our picnic—and perhaps emboldened by cousin Rémy—had streaked under our blanket directly behind where I was sitting, fumbled about momentarily, and ran back out when he realized there were no munchies to be had from his position. Meg and Mrs. McMaster had seen the offending beast and reacted accordingly. Mr. McMaster and I remained oblivious throughout the entire assault.

After the ladies calmed down, we tried to resume what had up until then been a peaceful meal. But the peace was not to return. Instead, our evening took a rather eerie turn for the worse. As we sat there talking about what had just happened, we began to notice numerous dark shapes speeding in and out of the shadows. Word had gotten out—there were goodies in the park that night. We were surrounded by rats. And we’re talking NYC rats here. Koala Bear-sized rats. (have you ever noticed how a Koala Bear—were you to give it a different body shape, different ears, different nose, shrink it down, give it a wormy-looking tail, and take away its Eucalyptus leaves—is not all that different from a rat?)

The picnic was ruined. We shoved what food we could either into our mouths or our bags, gathered up our blankets (watching for any little buggers that may have infiltrated our safety zone), and got the heck out.

On our way back to the demilitarized zone, we began a rather stimulating discussion of rats, particularly the portrayal of these ambassadors from hell in pop culture. Eventually the conversation turned to the classic, well-loved Disney movie, Lady and the Tramp. First of all, we talked about how it’s funny that, in a movie based completely on characters who are talking animals, the rats in the story were somehow left out in the speech department. Tell me, how is that?

Secondly, we mused on the peculiar fact that the climactic scene in the movie occurs when Tramp rescues a baby from two beady-eyed rodents. Is a rat really a source of danger for a sleeping child? Is that scene believable—apart from the fact that the rats are the only animals that can’t talk? Should parents be worried about rats in the nursery?

Apparently so. Mrs. McMaster proceeded to share with us a story about a bird owner—he had a parrot and two smaller birds—who was startled one day by piercing shrieks and squawks from the bird cages. Upon entering the room, he found the parrot in great distress and one of the smaller birds dead at the bottom of the cage. Baffled, he cleaned up and counted is as an avian loss.

The next day, the same thing happened. Again he heard a commotion from the room with the cages, and when he went to check he found the other small bird had been killed. The mystery was thickening, and now all that was left was the parrot.

Days later, the man heard the ruckus start up yet again and rushed into the room, hoping to catch the culprit red-handed. And catch him he did—an ever-loving rat—only it was not red-handed…it was red-mouthed. This vile creature had found its way into the cage with the parrot—mind you, a bird with a rather large beak and decent talons—and had gnawed the bird’s face off.

We cringed in horror at Mrs. McMaster’s story. If a rat could do that to a parrot, then, yes, it’s probably not too far-fetched to cast a rat as a baby-hunting villain in an animated movie.

But then my mind got to working. Why keep it confined to animated movies? This could be the next great B horror flick, right up there with The Stuff and They Live. Think about it: parents in a small town are terrorized by rats jonesing for human urchins. And I already have the perfect title: Baby Flesh. Alas, I’m too busy to dedicate the time needed for this project right now, so it’s up for grabs. Please feel free to jump on it.

P.S. – If anyone does decide to tackle this challenge, I think it’d be nice if you gave Meg a small role.