Don't think that this rat is the only one of his kind in the Underbelly. Of course there are others. Rodents are known for their ability to multiply in crazy numbers usually the fault of over active female rat partners, the ever horny guy rats, and the rat whores, a skanky brand of rodent that peddle their hairy butts around at bends in the pipe and intersections of tunnel works. Occasionally you may find a bit of lipstick in the bunch which they have copied from the gorgeous human females in the Above. But I've no desire to get into their trade here. That's another story. The point is, rats are many and constantly striving for a one up in the busy world of trash hording and refuse collecting.
Our rat was like any other out there. Working the daily grind, catching up on the latest news as it was passed around, venturing up to the city above for a new trinket or some spicy Indian food from a restaurant down three blocks from his house, and other odd daily activities. With these elements of his daily life came a certain amount of risk. The most obvious was the stereotypical menace of rodent life, Madame Pussycat. Many days seemed to end with a night at the local bar retelling the near misses of the day from a run in with the fuzzy pain in the butt. Life was good, but there was always something out there to make it tough or difficult.
It was at this bar on a Wednesday night that the rat met a cockroach tossing down a pint of whatever had been spilled in the street above when its prior owner leaned over the curb to blow his dinner into the street. This roach was definitely in an upbeat mood and when our buddy asked him what was good in his life the roach ranted and raved about his mad skill in avoiding the traditional dangers that come with everyday life. The rat couldn't believe there was a way to avoid the natural dangers of life on a daily basis and asked the roach to explain. The roach admitted he wasn't really avoiding anything, but with a new regime he did daily he had developed his senses and physical prowess to a level that gave him a one up on the gators, cats, and lurking birds. The rat was totally into this idea and prompted the creepy to give him an address where he could learn this technique.
Around the corner from the MilkBox Mansion and in a much more developed neighborhood complete with its own well maintained mold yards and automatic lighting for the street he found a small studio with a sign over the front that said SewerPrime Yoga. A new word, this "yoga." He checked himself in at the front desk and walked in to a class just getting ready to start. A very limber bat babe was stretching out at the head of classroom and immediately gave him a mat to plop down amongst the growing crowd of students. Positioning himself on the mat, the rat waited for the class to begin. With a quiet "welcome" the bat took her place at the front and began leading them through some quiet meditation. After the meditation began the most odd and disturbing sequences of bodily contortions you've ever seen and all seeming to be utterly pointless. Our rat didn't make a fuss though and worked through the random "asanas" and poses until it felt like his whole body was going to collapse. At the end of the class and with a parting namaste from the group the rat headed out shaking his head and wondering what the roach saw in this stuff.
The next day the rat noticed how much better he felt and how much more tuned in his ratty senses were. His altered state even allowed for him to finish up his daily dirty work early and stop in at the bar for a drink before heading home. The roach was there this evening and was impressed the rat actually went to the yoga class. The rat mentioned the pleasant side effects and the roach launched into another long rant about the benefits and pluses of his new way of life until the rat was finally convinced he had to go back to the class if for no other reason than to see what would drive the roach to such an obsessive love for this stuff. Which is what happened for the next four weeks until the rat started noticing how much more on top of his game he was and also how slow that fat gator seemed to be going these days. Life was getting a little easier. And with that he was totally sold on the idea and is still going as I'm writing this.
What's the point of this crazy ass story? Not really any point. I wanted a story about a rat that loved yoga. Hopefully I'll be taking yoga firmly in hand for a four week period myself which will then lead to a routine practice like my rat buddy.
Oh, and I don't have a rat. Just in case you were wondering.