I got a question for you: what has two arms, two legs, long ears, a fluffy
tail and would be hop-running away for its life if it didn't have a
smouldering three-centimetre hole burnt in its chest?  Answer however you
choose, but my employer says, "vermin".  I work in real estate - well, sort
of.  I'm a contractor, and my current employer is a holding company that
wants to convert some dilapidated warehouses into upscale condominiums.  My
official job title is "Itinerant Exclusion Specialist" but I am better known
as an "Exterminator."

I kill things.

I had just killed something.

I kicked the downed morph sharply with the hard toe of my boot to check for
signs of life.  A plasma bolt through the heart is not something that one
can normally just shake off, but I wanted to be certain - I haven't lasted
this long in my career by being careless.  Others in my profession had
learned too late that not everything that appears so is really dead.  I
doubt that an unarmed rabbit morph would stand much chance against my blast
armour - even if it rose up and hit me from behind - but good habits are
worth practising.

I kicked it again, hard enough to elicit the snap of a cracking rib.  If it
wasn't dead then I had to applaud its self-control.  I unclipped the
recorder from my belt and logged the occasion with a holo still.  I hate
piecework, but I have to take whatever contracts the agency gives me.

Piecework encourages waste: wasted batteries in the plasma rifle and more
kills than should be necessary.  With a flat rate, I can usually get by with
a couple of showy, public kills and scare away most of the remaining
squatters.  Today I was getting paid for bodies, though, so I had to skulk
around like a night prowler and take them unaware.

Have you ever tried to move quietly in blast armour?

I threw up the first time I killed a squatter.  It wasn't a clean kill for
one thing - I burnt off its arm at the shoulder.  It ran away, weaving and
bleating in agony while I tried to finish it with a killing shot.  The guy
who was training me was really pissed about it.  The commotion scared the
rest of them out of the area, and the single morph we'd killed didn't bring
in enough cash to pay for the charges that I'd expended.  That was my only
day of on-site training, and it was very nearly my only day on the job.

I didn't eat for two days after, and suffered from nightmares for much
longer.  Apparently most apprentices quit after their first outing, but I
returned when the bills started to weigh heavy on me after a couple of
weeks.  I don't blame you if you hate me for what I do - nothing I'm not
used to after this many years.  The rabbit I'd killed today knew that he'd
had it coming to him.  The landowners had sent in their caseworkers over a
week ago to be certain that everyone here knew and understood the terms of
their eviction.

Not easy to explain eviction to a degenerate, but a company has to honour
the laws of the land.  A lot of caseworkers disappear on the job - poor
bastards aren't even allowed to arm themselves.  It's a stupid law if you
ask me, but you probably didn't.

I settled down on my haunches beside the kill to enjoy a cigarette.  I
examined the body and noted the well-formed cranium on the specimen.  Most
degenerates have brains the size of a pea, and heads to match.  This one had
seen me coming at the last second and yelled,

"No!  Wait..." as if he had actually understood the meaning of the words.
Years ago I might have hesitated, but hard experience had taught me how wily
these creatures could be, in spite of their marginal sentience.  This guy
was pretty well dressed for a degenerate too.  He wasn't a paradigm of
fashion, but it was unusual to see a degenerate fur wearing clothes that had
more cloth than hole to them.  There was no blood on the body, just a clean,
cauterised bore through the chest.  One of the reasons why I favour a plasma
rifle for my work is that it creates a very clean kill.  Less laundering to
worry about when I pack the bodies away for disposal at the end of the day.

Some exterminators hire an assistant to sweep through afterward, but I'm a
greedy bastard.

I tossed aside the cigarette after a few puffs and left the remainder to
burn itself out on the littered concrete floor.  Littering is hardly a
concern when the building is going to be razed in a week.

Like most piecework contracts, my current one had a "booty" clause.  It was
time to rifle a few pockets and see how many shiny bottle-caps this creature
had picked up during its pathetic existence.  Imagine my surprise to find a
wallet.  I'd found wallets on degenerates before - they keep almost anything
they can find that will fit into their pockets.  The owner of this wallet
would be pleased to get it back - assuming he or she was still alive.  I
flipped through the cards and chits until I found the holo-ID.

Oh shit!  Bloody Hell and damnation - I'd just wasted a social worker!
What's worse, I'd documented it all!  I glanced at the recorder hooked on my
belt and pondered my options.  He had no right to be here.  He MUST have
known that this site was slated for cleansing.  I had checked with the
agencies in that morning to make sure that the notices had been sent out.
Like I said, I'm thorough.  I kicked him again, harder.

"Fuck!  Fuck, you BASTARD!"  I don't know how long I stood there, kicking
the body of the dead social worker, but when I stopped, his shirt was soaked
through with blood.  I rested the butt of the rifle on his battered chest
and leaned on the end of the barrel.  I would have to lose the recorder -
that was a given.  They were freakin' expensive to replace, but at the
moment it was the surest piece of damning evidence to turn me into venison.

I unclipped the holo recorder from my belt and tossed it to the ground a few
feet away.  I could have reduced it to slag with a single bolt from the
rifle, but a plan was already beginning to form itself in the back of my
cervine head.  I rooted around through the debris of the decaying building
until I found an iron bar that would serve my purpose.  Holo recorders are
like the black box for exterminators - built to withstand a lot of abuse.
They're not easy to destroy, but neither is it impossible if one is
sufficiently motivated.  Let's just say that I was motivated.  I made a lot
of noise in the process but this job was a wash, and stealth was no longer a
concern.  I was panting hard by the time I was done.

Degenerates have been known to smash recorders before.  Heck, they'll break
just about anything they can capture from an exterminator.  Degenerates hate
exterminators - with cause.

The next step was to do something about this body.  I would like to state
for the record that I am not good with gore.  My personal motto is, "fast
and clean."  I rubbed the fuzzy stumps of my antlers and paused again to
consider my options.  The burn through the chest would be problematic.
There aren't a lot of degenerates carrying plasma rifles.  It's not like
social workers don't get killed on the job, though.  I just had to make this
death look a bit... less incriminating.

A switchback stairway on one of the walls led up to a series of catwalks
that had once been used to service the overhead cranes.  The crane motors
and tracks had long since been removed, along with anything else of value in
the building.  As my eyes followed the four-stories of stairwells to their
lofty destination a plan began to gel in my head.  I holstered the rifle on
my back and tossed the body of the dead rabbit over my shoulder.  I would
have to work quickly before rigor mortis set in.

Climbing is not one of my fortes - especially when I am carrying 80 kilos of
dead weight in addition to my combat armour.  As much as I begrudged having
to stop for rests as I ascended the stairs, by the third landing it was no
longer optional.  By the time I reached the catwalk, I been forced to stop
three times, and my breath was coming in ragged gasps.  I'm in pretty good
shape you know, but there is only so far that you can push a body that is
not designed for stairs.

I slung the dead rabbit supine on the latticed-metal floor of the catwalk.
I tore away the remains of his shirt, and hunted around for an appropriate
tool to accomplish my next task.  It did not take me very long to find a
rusty shard of quarter-inch sheet metal, and I set to the grisly task of
evisceration.

I will spare you the details.

I removed every bit of charred flesh, and tore away every scrap of clothing
that showed evidence of plasma burns.  The miracle is that I didn't lose my
breakfast in the process.  I did later, but I'll spare you those details
too.  Now all I needed was an accomplice.  There are always a few stupid
ones who hang around when the killing has begin - usually thinking they can
escape if they hide well enough.  My IR detector had picked one up about a
hundred metres from where I was performing my unpleasant work.  I stood back
to examine my handiwork, and decided to add a few more random stabs and
slashes with the metal.  When I was done, I carefully laid it beside the
body and went off in search of my assistant.

I found it hunkered down inside a rusty metal barrel.  I kicked the barrel,
sending a shower of rust flakes down on the trembling morph inside.

"Get out of the barrel," I said flatly.

"No kill I," said a slurred, tremulous voice from inside its haven.

I gave the barrel another solid kick and said,

"Get out of the fucking barrel!  Now, or I WILL kill you."

A little grey hand reached over the rim of the barrel, followed by another
hand and finally the muzzle of one of the most ugly, scraggly rats I have
ever seen.  A rat - perfect!

"No kill I," it pleaded again, its nose quivering in terror.  My patience
was as raw as my nerves, and I grabbed the lip of the barrel and overturned
it, spilling the startled rat out onto the ground.  Before she could
recover, I pulled my plasma rifle from its holster on my back and flipped
its safety, letting her hear the whine as it charged.

"Get up, vermin," I said.  The rat did anything but, though, curling up into
a foetal ball and wrapping her arms protectively around her head.

"No kill I!  No kill I!" she wailed in desperation.  I suspected that they
were probably the only words that she knew.  I prodded her sharply with the
muzzle of the rifle and snapped,

"I'm going to start blowing off your limbs one at a time until you get up
and do what I say.  I'll begin with your tail.  Do you want that?"

"No no no no!" she keened, rocking herself back and forth while she pleaded.
A moment later the air filled with the bitter tang of rat urine.

"Then get up," I said slowly.  As stupid as she was, she must have begun to
figure out that I would have already killed her if I had been planning to.
With maddeningly slow movements, she unwrapped her head and blinked up at me
through her beady rodent eyes.  "That's right," I said in what I hoped was
an encouraging tone.  I diverted the point of the gun away from her and gave
a terse wave with my left hand.  "Come on, stand up."

She was trembling so badly that she could barely stand, and she required
three tries to finally gain her feet with any confidence.  If I hadn't
needed this rat I would have slagged her as she stood, but fate was smiling
on this little rodent.  I gave her a quick appraisal after she was finally
on her feet: about a metre and a half tall, maybe fifty kilos.  Not great,
but believable enough for what I had in mind.

"Walk toward the stairs over there and climb ahead of me," I instructed.  I
had to repeat it again more slowly before she understood.  She turned and
walked toward the stairs, turning constantly to cast me nervous glances over
her shoulder.  She was a prime candidate to attempt a break for freedom, and
I reminded her a couple of times, "If you try to run, I will shoot off your
tail."

Once she finally got it into her tiny rat brain that I probably wasn't going
to kill her, she became almost irritatingly co-operative.  She even held out
a hand to help me on the stairs when I stopped for a rest.  Only once,
though.  She learned when I pushed her violently away and growled,

"If you even TRY to touch me again, vermin..."

I am sure that I read someplace that rats like carrion.  It's like a law or
something, isn't it?  Trust a degenerate to be atypical.  When she saw the
eviscerated body of the rabbit, she clasped her hands to her muzzle and gave
a yelp of alarm.

"You kill!  No kill I!" she said again, backing up until she ran into the
muzzle of my rifle.  I used it to shove her forward again until I had her
standing over the body and the sundry parts thereof.

"Pick up that piece of metal," I ordered.  She seemed confused by the
command until I pointed at the shard and repeated the command.  She picked
it up tentatively and held it out to me.  I shook my head.  "Grab it in your
hands.  Both your hands," I said.  This should have been an easy process,
but if you've ever dealt with degenerates, you'll know the trouble I had
getting her to follow these simple instructions.  When she finally had it
grasped in the manner that I wanted, I said, "Now hit the rabbit with it."

I made some downward motions with my free hand to illustrate.  After a few
repetitions she finally understood what I wanted, and gave the corpse a
gentle tap with the shard.

"Harder!"

She tapped the body again, and looked up at me expectantly.  I shook my
head.  "Hard!  As hard as you can!" I barked angrily.  She whimpered and
seemed confused again.  With a growl of exasperation, I re-holstered my
rifle and reached out to cup my hands around hers.  "Like this!"  With a
violent motion, I brought her hands down and plunged the point of the shard
into the rabbit's shoulder.

She gave a yelp of combined shock and pain as the sharp edges of the metal
bit into her hands.  She jumped away, tossing the sheet metal aside and
held up her cut palms for inspection.  I took advantage of her surprise
to retrain the rifle on her.  I pointed it at her chest, then at the mound
of rabbit parts that I had carefully removed earlier.

"Eat." I said.

I am not adept at reading rat expressions, but I think hers migrated through
a sequence from surprise, to alarm, to revulsion.

"No eat flesh, I," she protested firmly.

"Eat, or die."

"No eat flesh, I," she said again.  She was trembling badly, and tears began
to well up in her eyes.  You may think that I am entirely heartless, and
perhaps I am.  I was also desperate.

"I will start with your tail," I said calmly, "then I will burn off your
left foot.  Then your right foot.  I will burn off both your hands and leave
you to die.  Do you want that?"

She shook her head desperately, terror written deeply in her watering eyes.

"And don't tell me you don't eat flesh, you lying bag of shit.  I know about
rats, and you eat your own young if given the chance.  Now chow down before
my trigger finger gets twitchy."

Her will to live eventually overcame her revulsion, and she timidly crawled
forward to the feast that I'd laid out for her. I don't honestly know if
rats eat their young or not, but I DO know that they don't have a gag
reflex.  Once she finished this meal, she would hold it down.  I can't say
the same for my breakfast later that day.

I couldn't bear to look on, but I did.  I watched the hapless, degenerate
rat morph swallow every bit of evidence from my crime.  When she was done, I
waved the muzzle of the plasma rifle toward the stairs and said,

"Now go.  Run along."

She backed away, crab-like toward the stairs, eyeing the gun until she
reached the landing.  Only when she had backed down three steps did she turn
and run down the stairs, taking them three at a time.  I watched as she
fled, following her progress across the warehouse floor and out the back
door.  When she disappeared out of the range of my IR scope, I re-holstered
my weapon and bent over the body.  With a grunt exertion - rigor mortis had
DEFINITELY set in now - I picked up the remains of the corpse and threw it
over the railing.

I'll leave the sound it made when it hit the concrete to your imagination.

This job was a freebie from here out, but I had a reputation to uphold and
I hunted down the remaining degenerates before I closed up the front door
and reported back to the office.

Was I worried that she would tell somebody what I'd done?  Of course she
would tell.  She would tell everyone who would listen, I'm sure.
Degenerates HATE exterminators, though, and they tell all manner of awful
stories about us.  Most of the stories are true - but who listens to a
degenerate?

I gave the remains of my holo recorder a vicious kick on my way past.  THAT
was going to cost me a small fortune in fines, but that's the price of
screwing up on a job. If I believed that I had a soul then I suspect there
would be a special place set aside for me in Hell.

What a way to earn a living.

* Plonq