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    Ratwarmer
    Ratwarmer
    Ratwarmer
    Ebook84 pages1 hour

    Ratwarmer

    By David Macpherson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Tim is a ratwarmer. 

     

    He has the power to bring people back from the dead.  

     

    During the FlipSwitch, some people got some powers. Tim got the power of reanimation. 

     

    It's not as great as it seems. 

     

    He works for the police. He brings recently dead victims back so they can be a witness to their own death. That's what a ratwarmer does. 

     

    It doesn't work well, but it's worth a try. 

     

    Now, there is a murder in town. The wife a wealthy man. Tim knew this woman. And now he will have to bring her back.  

     

    There is a world of corruption that only the dead know and Tim can get them to talk.  

     

    There is a dead body so it's a mystery. People have strange powers so it is a fantasy. There are reanimated bodies, so it also could be a horror. 

     

    But what it is, is the story of a guy not sure of his place in the world. A strange world, but it is the only we he has.  

     

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Macpherson
    Release dateFeb 14, 2023
    ISBN9798215821114
    Ratwarmer

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      Book preview

      Ratwarmer - David Macpherson

      One

      The body dropped. A dead body to worry about, fresh and current. They didn’t call me. I was in the station house, talking to Burt, the desk sergeant, when the call came in. Fisk and Maddin took the call and waved me off. No Timmy, it’s not anything for you. Don’t you worry. Let the real cops police it up. We can get this one from evidence. We don’t need it from the horse’s mouth.

      They had forensics do their lab thing. They checked for shell casings and blood spatter and they didn’t call me. Nobody called me. I was telling Burt about samurai swords. The History Channel did a show on them and I was paying attention and got a lot of important facts. I was understanding what was important to tell him. I was ount of information That’s what Burt was calling me: a fount of information. Not for my job, I guess. Just on katanas and tantos. Those are samurai swords. They are used for different jobs. But you don’t need to know that now. Maybe later, I will tell you.

      I was drinking enough sludgy police house coffee to keep me up until the coma hours and still do a hell of a great job, but they didn’t call me. They didn’t even give me a hint. I was in the office. I was right there.

      It was a quiet month, all month and the one time they needed me. I mean really needed me and they didn’t call. If they don’t like me or don’t like the idea of a ratwarmer, well I guess I won’t be invited out for drinks. Which I am not. They don’t want to drink with no ratwarmer. But the thing is, they don’t need to like me to have me do my job. The city pays for me to be there. I even got a title that isn’t ratwarmer. They have me on the books as a witnessing victim consultant. I guess that’s a good way to describe me.

      I like it better than being a ratwarmer. Though the thing is, I might like it better but I don’t ever call myself it. Can you see me sidle up to the bar and say, I’m a witnessing victim consultant for the PD, want to hear some fascinating anecdotes?

      So I kind of stick to ratwamer. It means nothing. It’s just words crushed together. Like homebase or walky-talky. Someone who sings against the bad guys is a rat. Kind of weird that a rat is the thing that sings. But that’s always been the parlance for the snitch. It is a rat. It is a thing that sings. I’ve been to New York City and I have seen big economy sized rats. Though all my time there, I never heard one of them carry a tune.  And the warmer part of the word? I guess it’s because the corpse is still warm. Ratwarmer. Not a great name. I would ignore me too.

      I got a call the next morning, I was still sleeping and the phone rang. It was Peters from The Current. Peters had been to the bar with me. Even wrote a feature on me. I clipped it. I have the yellowing thing somewhere around here. I know I should have it saved in a scrapbook, but it’s the only story about me, so it would be a pretty sad lonely collection of clippings. Blank pages as far as the finger can flip. 

      Tim, you son of a bitch, why didn’t you call me?

      I was weirded out by this, Peters is a gruff reporter guy who even wears a fedora. It doesn’t make much sense, but it's a badge to show what he does for a living.  What are you talking about? You told me not to call for no reason.

      He snorted. Really? I was under the belief that there was an understanding between the two of us.

      We sure had an understanding. I let him know about the dead bodies that I get to tell their last breath memories and he accidentally drops a twenty or fifty on the ground for me to pick up. I know, kind of lame, but I was giving him nice information. He was just being forgetful in dropping his money in the most appreciative way possible. I didn’t not tell you nothing, I said. I was groggy and full of useless dream memories, but I was pretty sure I didn’t have anything for him.

      Oh. You didn't. You didn’t not tell me nothing about Mrs. Dominick Shtudt getting shot five times and dumped. There might not be a crime scene. She might have been dumped or she might have been there. It’s a big headline mess and they don’t even know the actual crime scene location and you didn’t call me? What kind of friend are you Timmy?  Next time you look down on the ground, the only thing you’re going to find is you untied shoelaces.

      He hung up on me. He had this anger on me and I didn’t know nothing. This is not me acting dumb. This is me being plain dumb. Tim, in his natural state. At least dumb about the murder that went down. How could I call him about the tip when no one had me wired into it?

      I ran some toothpaste around my front teeth and patted my hair down with water, knowing that both activities were little help to improve my presentability. I was rolling out of bed, not knowing what was going on. How Shtudt’s wife was dead and me not making her sing, if I could. Maybe they didn’t need me, like they said the night before. Maybe I was not needed at all.

      I got to the station and wedged through news reporters and camera people, careful not to talk to no one or fumble over any power cord the camera guys were tripwiring the ground with. I thought my cousin’s kids leaving their toys all

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