When I moved to the Spring Ridge neighborhood I brought my Daisey pump gun, and Earl had a Red Ryder thousand shot air rifle. I cannot recall the make or model of the weapon Fuzz wielded, but I'm sure it was up to the task of hunting rats.
In those days all big naval guns had been removed from the concrete pill box bunkers at the Point where a great foul oozing viscosity of sewage poured forth upon which dined all variety of creatures big and small, including the largest infestation of rats this side of Warf Street. Or even Vancouver.
"We're doing the city a favor by killing those varmints," Earl told me.
"So I'll bring sandwiches and we can eat on the beach," I loved food.
"They'd be Norway rats down there, I expect," Fuzz was the true scientist. "Black rats like to live up high."
Next day at four AM we grabbed our guns, flashlights and bikes -- Clover Point bound. It was true slaughter, for - both inside and outside the concrete bunker - the rats squirmed like maggots dining on a carcass. "We massacred them!" Earl told the neighborhood later.
I failed to count the days we played that particular game, but the activity forced us to stock up with more BB's once or twice, and most certainly I'll never forget the day the routine soured.
Perhaps it was only fatigue, possibly we hallucinated, having watched King Kong and The Wolf Man once too many times down at the Atlas, Dominion or Plaza. Whatever. I was pumping away knee deep in rat corpses when I became certain I saw extraneous movement. "What the hell is that? Look over there!" Rising from the shadows and bulk of pulsating furry bodies, I became aware of a glowing apparition so grossly horrifying as to numb the senses. Indeed it seemed a rat, but yet was more of the size, shape, and proportion of werewolf or ape. Long menacing claws vibrated toward us, razor teeth dripped with foul saliva; the beast moved closer and closer and ever closer, until I swear I could feel it's hot breath on my cold blue face.
Though Fuzz later claimed he didn't actually see the thing, that disgusting hairy shape leaped from the corner and jumped maliciously toward us. "Yeeeoooooooowwwww!" I cried and began to run for my bike.
"Whoooooooooooeeeeooo!" yelled Fuzz who was normally very quiet about such things.
"Yiiiiiiiiiiipeeeeeeeeeee!" Earl ran far ahead of me.
Before noon our adventure story had scoped the neighborhood. "Didja hear about Ratashark, the giant rat that chewed up the guys!" Little Tim was to tell his gang. "Teeth like an alligator."
"Ratagargantus." Is What Earl called it and the name stuck. Next day he asked: "Wow. I had a nightmare that a whole room full of vengeful Ratagargantuses were eating me alive. Wanna go back and take a crack that monster?" The offer seemed to contain little enthusiastic vigor.
Next door lived Mr. Jack, the SPCA guy: "Now I can't believe that story. It might have been a muskrat or even nutria. I hear they're imported for fur. A pet Capybara that got loose? Hardly. And none would come at you as you've described." Talk about a wet blanket to spoil our story.
Thus one morning as stars twinkled and our folks slept soundly, nearly a whole neighborhood of guys rose, took up their sling shots, BB guns, bows and arrows and knives making tracks to Clover Point. There we surrounded the bunker and invaded like some stealthy commando squad on death raid, most of us nearly wetting our pants during the maneuver. Deep within each mind, I'm sure, lurked the grizzly image of Ratagargantus. We could nearly see the piercing red eyes, smell the foul breath and feel the creepy hair of that flesh-eating monster. Long razor teeth, slavering, hungry for human blood. Chills running icily up and down our spines.
"There it is!" Someone shouted and we blasted away in all directions, subsequently running and peddling as fast as Bud Abbott and Lou Costello escaping a ghost.
We never went back. In the quiet pre-dawn with the first chirp of robins, as hushed winds brushed serene Victoria, for some reason we sought other adventures not involving Ratagargantus.
Though now and then in the quiet of starry morn the nightmares continue.
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