vermin, Dee-Ann. I can handle human vermin. This kind of vermin . . . I can’t handle.”
Surprised a wolf would openly act so freaked out about a goddamn rat, Dee-Ann walked over to her closet to show Van Holtz how a Smith handled a little ol’ vermin problem.
Ric stood by the door, foot tapping impatiently, his entire body coiled and ready to make a crazed sprint out the window and to the safety of the unsafe street below. But, as much as he might want to, he would never leave Dee-Ann alone to face that . . . that thing she had living in her closet.
It was a known fact around the world that there were two things the Van Holtzes hated universally, whether it was the American Van Holtzes, the German, the Italian—whatever. And those universally hated things? Roaches and rats, the bane of any restaurant’s existence.
For the Van Holtz Pack the hatred went far deeper than that. It wasn’t unexpected that one of their restaurants would be shut down for weeks if there was any sign of vermin. Even the health department’s more scummy inspectors, willing to take a payoff to overlook things, didn’t bother to try to elicit bribes from any Van Holtz. What was the point when the whole group reacted to any sign of mold, fungus, or vermin with an intense violence rivaled only by actual house cats? In fact, a few Van Holtzes, including Ric, were known to hire feline line cooks just so they could deal with any rodent problems. But there could be no playing with the vermin, as some felines liked to do—especially those mountain lions and leopards—they were there to kill, kill, kill. One of Ric’s favorite grill men was an Ecuadorian cheetah who went after vermin with an almost psychotic glee. When he finally left the restaurant to run his own kitchen—Ric cried a little.
Sighing dramatically, Dee ambled across the room to see the horror that lay in wait. He knew what she was going to do. Or what she’d try to do—show Ric what a big wuss he was being. Well, let her try , he thought, seconds before she fled back to his side, panting, eyes wide in fear.
“It hissed at me,” she said, her voice a tad higher than he’d ever heard it before.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Are rats supposed to hiss?”
“It’s not a farm rat, Dee. It’s a Manhattan rat.”
“It’s the size of my cousin’s dog!”
“And has a nest it’s protecting, so I suggest we just get the hell—”
It came skidding out into the middle of the room, all long and ripped like it had been on steroids for years. It hissed at the pair again, beady eyes red and pulsating with rage. And, going on instinct alone rather than rational thought, the two wolves made a crazed run for it, right out the door and into the hall, Ric slamming the door shut behind them. They stood with their backs against it, their shoulders pressed together, both of them panting, even shaking a little.
On the other side, that thing slammed its entire body against the wood, small claws viciously digging. The pair jumped and Dee, the She-wolf who had faced the meanest predators in this country and others, grabbed Ric’s hand and yanked him away and down the stairs, jumping over trash and drunks until they reached his car, which he was glad to see was still there.
He unlocked the doors with his remote and yanked the driver’s side door open. That’s when Ric looked up, sensing they were being watched. He’d give anything to see some terrifying human standing there, maybe with a high-powered rifle, ready to shoot them both dead. But it wasn’t some terrifying human.
“Dee . . .”
Slowly, Dee looked over her shoulder and up. The rat—a female with babes to protect—stood on the sill of that open window, glaring down at them with those beady rat eyes. Then it hissed again, showing a mouthful of fangs.
They both scrambled into the car.
“Go!” Dee yelled. “Go, go, go!”
He did, starting the car, and tearing out of that spot, grateful that the German car gods
Surprised a wolf would openly act so freaked out about a goddamn rat, Dee-Ann walked over to her closet to show Van Holtz how a Smith handled a little ol’ vermin problem.
Ric stood by the door, foot tapping impatiently, his entire body coiled and ready to make a crazed sprint out the window and to the safety of the unsafe street below. But, as much as he might want to, he would never leave Dee-Ann alone to face that . . . that thing she had living in her closet.
It was a known fact around the world that there were two things the Van Holtzes hated universally, whether it was the American Van Holtzes, the German, the Italian—whatever. And those universally hated things? Roaches and rats, the bane of any restaurant’s existence.
For the Van Holtz Pack the hatred went far deeper than that. It wasn’t unexpected that one of their restaurants would be shut down for weeks if there was any sign of vermin. Even the health department’s more scummy inspectors, willing to take a payoff to overlook things, didn’t bother to try to elicit bribes from any Van Holtz. What was the point when the whole group reacted to any sign of mold, fungus, or vermin with an intense violence rivaled only by actual house cats? In fact, a few Van Holtzes, including Ric, were known to hire feline line cooks just so they could deal with any rodent problems. But there could be no playing with the vermin, as some felines liked to do—especially those mountain lions and leopards—they were there to kill, kill, kill. One of Ric’s favorite grill men was an Ecuadorian cheetah who went after vermin with an almost psychotic glee. When he finally left the restaurant to run his own kitchen—Ric cried a little.
Sighing dramatically, Dee ambled across the room to see the horror that lay in wait. He knew what she was going to do. Or what she’d try to do—show Ric what a big wuss he was being. Well, let her try , he thought, seconds before she fled back to his side, panting, eyes wide in fear.
“It hissed at me,” she said, her voice a tad higher than he’d ever heard it before.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Are rats supposed to hiss?”
“It’s not a farm rat, Dee. It’s a Manhattan rat.”
“It’s the size of my cousin’s dog!”
“And has a nest it’s protecting, so I suggest we just get the hell—”
It came skidding out into the middle of the room, all long and ripped like it had been on steroids for years. It hissed at the pair again, beady eyes red and pulsating with rage. And, going on instinct alone rather than rational thought, the two wolves made a crazed run for it, right out the door and into the hall, Ric slamming the door shut behind them. They stood with their backs against it, their shoulders pressed together, both of them panting, even shaking a little.
On the other side, that thing slammed its entire body against the wood, small claws viciously digging. The pair jumped and Dee, the She-wolf who had faced the meanest predators in this country and others, grabbed Ric’s hand and yanked him away and down the stairs, jumping over trash and drunks until they reached his car, which he was glad to see was still there.
He unlocked the doors with his remote and yanked the driver’s side door open. That’s when Ric looked up, sensing they were being watched. He’d give anything to see some terrifying human standing there, maybe with a high-powered rifle, ready to shoot them both dead. But it wasn’t some terrifying human.
“Dee . . .”
Slowly, Dee looked over her shoulder and up. The rat—a female with babes to protect—stood on the sill of that open window, glaring down at them with those beady rat eyes. Then it hissed again, showing a mouthful of fangs.
They both scrambled into the car.
“Go!” Dee yelled. “Go, go, go!”
He did, starting the car, and tearing out of that spot, grateful that the German car gods
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