oh, rats!

So my subway station, like, needs a Pied Piper of Williamsburg. why are there always so many freaking rats there? Last night two rats (big and bigger) were frolicking on the opposite platform, doing some American-Beauty-type-shit to a plastic bag. One kept standing on its hind legs and pawing the column at the base of the stairs, seemingly incapable of retaining the fact that it was not able to climb up it the last three times it attempted to do so. But it persevered, undoubtedly a future Icarus--or, actually, more likely, Sysiphus among the L train rat kinship network. The other kept running into a hole in the wall and running out of the adjoining one, which says something about the architectural infrastructure of ________ Avenue stop. I guess it is possible that a new rat emerged each time, but I don't think so. Anyway, the disgusting part was the tail disappearing into the hole last, still wiggling, after the rat's body disappeared. I wished I had not put in my contacts. Not as bad as the time I was sitting on the bench with Rami and David T. and a rat fell out of the ceiling next to the bench, at which point, according to them (I don't remember because I must have been on an adrenaline superhigh) I emitted a shriek that bordered on ultrasound which scared the rat, already probably in shock from its fall (I guess that rat was a more likely candidate for Icarus, except I don't think it was flying close to the Sun or anything like that, I imagine it was wallowing in the filth that is contained within the ceilings of my ghetto subway station), lunged off the platform and onto the rails, and somehow in one jump I ascended from a sitting-on-the-bench position to standing-on-same-bench position. one fluid motion, my friends. my soviet childhood years of figure skating, desublimated from my muscles and bones, finally paid off.
please send a pied piper with his pipe. or possibly wilbur.