Ratigan's Return

Topping off our villain month, we have Ratigan, brushing off that little fall off of Big Ben with a good dose of steroids!

Deep in the underground sewers and hidden backways of London, a rat scurried through the darkness. He was holding on to the tattered remains of his finely tailored suit, limping along and panting, scarcely able to stop and catch his breath. When he turned down a familiar corner, the rat let out a deep sigh of relief as he saw the familiar hollowed out beer keg, a giant R painted over the tap.

“Ah! At last,” Professor Ratiga sighed, dabbing the sides of his mussed hair. “The familiar walls of my humble abode.” He stood to his full height, puffing out his chest, and put on an air of civility he had not been able to hold on to for days, now.

“Even now, my loyal minions will already be plotting to avenge me on that miserable little pipsqueak, Basil...” The wind was knocked out of Ratigan as he looked around. His palatial hideout was once bedecked with crystal chandeliers, fountains flowing with wine, and the dragon’s hoard of gold and jewels he had accumulated over his long, storied career. Now, everything down to the velvet curtains had been filched.

Ratigan was left staring slack-jawed at the barren remains of his home. “What. Happened.” He looked about wildly, his nose twitching out of anger. “What happened?!” he shouted, expecting an answer. 

“Ugh…” 

Ratigan’s round ears twitched as he heard a groan, and then the clattering of empty beer bottles. He then heard a nervous tittering, and the flapping of wings.

“Fidget!” Ratigan snatched a notched ear, yanking the small, peg-legged bat before his minion could make his escape. “Where is everyone?!”

“B-boss!” Fidget gasped, looking Ratigan up and down. “We thought you were dead! Half of London saw you fall off Big Ben!”

“Stranger things happen at sea, my dear Fidget,” Ratigan sniffed, still leaving the bat dangling in his grasp. “I’m back. Where has everyone gone?”

“Th-they, they, uh… they’re gone, boss,” Fidget squeaked.

“What do you mean, gone?” 

The bat ogled at the rat menacing him. “They— you know, they’re gone, boss. They left, they’re no longer here, they moved somewhere else, they—”

“I know what gone means, you gibbering idiot!” Ratigan shouted, boxing the bat’s other ear. “And I assume they took it upon themselves to take my rightfully stolen loot with them?”

“That’s, uh, that’s right, sir… can you put me down, now?” Fidget asked timidly.

Ratigan fought an impulse to throttle the bat, but then he realized Fidget was his only resource at this point. “There, there, my delightful little winged friend,” he said sweetly, patting Fidget’s head before dusting off his cap. “This can all be mended. I’ll summon Felicia, and she will see to these wayward souls of mine.”

“Uhm. Felicia, she…”

Ratigan’s eye twitched. “Where is Felicia, Fidget?”

“She got adopted… taken up to the country, by some rich widow lady.”

“Adopted? ADOPTED?” Ratigan raged. “What do you MEAN adopted?!”

“Well, you know, it’s when a cat without an owner is taken in by—”

“I know what adopted means, you miserable little— Oh! Hngh!” Ratigan convulsed, trying to keep in his sheer rage. His face turned red, and then, with Fidget nearly seeing steam escaping the large rodent’s ears, Ratigan regained his composure. He slumped into the throne at the center of his hideout, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, Fidget! He’s done it. Basil’s finally done it. Without my minions, without my riches, without my darling Felicia, I’m finished! Oh, what did I ever do to deserve this?”

Fidget was about to rattle off the long list of Ratigan’s crimes, but in a rare moment of self-preservation, he kept his mouth shut. “Oh, well, there, there, boss… maybe we can rebuild?”

“Oh, Fidget, my naive little dunce,” Ratigan sighed. “How can I make you understand that the Criminal Underworld is far from forgiving? After my defeat, no one will be waiting for a comeback. I needed Felicia most of all to scare people back in line, and there are precious few cats in the world willing to listen to a mouse.”

“Well… you’re pretty scary as is, boss.”

Ratigan frowned, ready to strike the bat, then paused. “Wait… that’s it! I’ve been sparring with Basil for too long! I’m not dealing with the upper echelons of the British government or that miserable field mouse on Baker Street, I need to appeal to brutes and thugs! And for that, I need brute strength. Relying on Felicia was a shortcoming; I need to be my own Felicia!”

“Do… do you want to be called Felicia, boss?” the bat asked.

Ratigan’s eye was twitching again. It had been a long day. “Oh, Fidget…” he held out his arm. “I’m far too tired to hit you myself. Be a good sport and run headfirst into my fist.” Ratigan allowed himself a smile when Fidget managed to give himself a black eye from attempting his orders; it was heartening to know that he was good for something in these trying times.

The chemist’s shop on Lowell Street was familiar to Ratigan, who pursed his lips in a sneer looking up at the storefront. “The proprietor here has a habit of experimenting on rats— I can’t tell you how many times in my youth, Fidget, I had to dodge the traps he laid in the alley. Thankfully…” Sticking close to the wall, Ratigan threw his weight against a loose brick, which revealed a mouse hole. “I found a way to return the favor. Through this passage, I dragged the traps and placed them just under his bed, where he hoped to find his slippers each morning.”

“That’s great boss, but, uh, why are we here, again?”

“Because he has something that may just aid my plan… if my last tussle with Basil has taught me one thing, Fidget, it’s that I have been denying myself.” He looked down at the bat. “I’m sure this may shock you, but the truth is, I’ve always hidden a part of my upbringing… I’m a rat by birth, not a mouse.”

Frowning, he looked back to the bat, who needed a moment to realize he needed to act surprised. “Oh! Uhm— wow, boss! I’d have never guessed.”

“Yes, I bore that cross well…” Ratigan sighed dramatically. “But now that I have to be my own muscle to regain my proper position in criminal society, certain ugly truths must be faced.” Ratigan and Fidget snuck inside, sticking close to the wall. They gazed up at the massive cabinet that loomed above them. “This is it. Look for something called an ‘anabolic steroid,’ it should be in a glass vial.”

The bat nodded, climbing his way up the cabinet. More than once, his clumsy attempt to grab vials sent them hurtling to the floor. “Careful, you idiot!” Ratigan hissed, dodging one vial of acid that nearly singed his cape.

Eventually, Fidget hobbled his way back down, carrying a vial with a red tinged liquid inside. “Here, boss, ana-whatsit steroid.”

“I think we’ll test this, first,” Ratigan muttered, wrapping an arm around the cork and popping it off. He seemed rather lost without a champagne glass to pour it in, and spent a good minute trying to figure out how to drink it in a distinguished fashion. Finally, Ratigan gave up any pretense, hefted the vial and tipped it back, taking a large gulp.

“You feel okay, boss…?”

Ratigan grunted, rolling his broad shoulders. He raised one arm, tensing it before giving it a proper flex, an already girthy bicep surging until it split his sleeve. “Oh, yes, Fidget. I feel just marvelous,” Ratigan chuckled.  

Some weeks later, Basil of Baker Street, the greatest detective in all mousedom, was hunkered down at a table in The Rat Trap, the dingiest bar in London. It was a breeding ground for criminals, and Basil was keeping watch out for the biggest of them all. Dressed in another cunning disguise as a Scottish Highlander, he was trying to keep a low profile. After a few weeks, he had heard disturbing rumors that Ratigan was still around. He hated to admit it, but if any of his opponents could survive falling off Big Ben, it was Professor Ratigan.

“Anything?” Basil asked as Dawson returned to their corner table with drinks.

The portly mouse that had become Basil’s new partner shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t think anyone in here actually works for Ratigan or has heard from him. It’s all hearsay and rumors.”

The detective beat his fist on the table. “Drat! I was so certain that he would show up here tonight…” His ears twitched, as both he and Dawson looked to the main entrance; there was some sort of commotion.

A very burly rat had pushed his way to the front, and was currently clearing his throat to make an announcement. As he spoke, Basil clenched his teeth. “Dear friends; my ruthless rogues, vicious vagabonds, and cruelest of cut-throats, I do apologize for my absence of late. I’ve had to convalesce for a time, but I’ve returned, filled with vim and vigor, and here to offer you all employment as my minions, effective immediately.”

“Yeah? An’ who’re you, m’lord?” A broad-shouldered longshoreman slurred, drunkenly throwing a punch. He gasped as his hand was caught, and the rat began to show just how big he was.

Dashing off his cloak with a flourish and standing to his full height, Ratigan smirked as he squeezed on the other mouse’s fist, twisting his arm effortlessly. “I am Professor Padraic Ratigan, my good man. And if you need an etiquette lesson, I am only too happy to provide it.” Ratigan hefted up the mouse, his arms thick as his victim’s waist. His swollen biceps barely tensed, he threw him clear across the room.

There was a long pause as all the bar patrons stared at Ratigan, now easily three times his old size. It was a wonder he even squeezed through the door. “Alright boys, get ‘im!” Someone shouted, and the entire taproom descended into a brawl.

Ratigan cackled as he caught one mouse with his arm, and pinned another down with his beefy chest alone. As the thugs tugged and grabbed at Ratigan, his fine clothes finally gave way, first his long-suffering sleeves, then his too-tight vest, revealing his immense musculature. He was a juggernaut; two mice attempted to ram him right in his gut, hoping to find a soft underbelly, but his thick middle was like a cast-iron keg as they managed to knock themselves out. Ratigan was able to throw down his many attackers with ease until he was left looming over them all, grinning maliciously. “I trust there will be no further objections…?” Ratigan asked searchingly, scanning the dozens of vermin sprawled out all around him. “Good, good. I’ll expect you all at my headquarters tomorrow night, promptly at seven. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

Slack-jawed, Dawson ogled Ratigan as the hulking rat forced his way out of the bar, leaving a behemoth-shaped hole in the door frame. Speechless, the portly mouse turned to Basil, who was stroking his chin.

“Mm. Yes. This might be a problem, Dawson.”

“Ahh, Fidget, it was a triumph!” Ratigan boasted. He held out his arm, his overgrown triceps wrestling with his biceps as Fidget dangled from a strained measuring tape; some things may have changed, but Ratigan was still in want of a good, well-tailored suit. Dressed down to his unmentionables, he was a little concerned about the figure he would cut with a substantial amount of extra weight hanging off his middle; nothing fine clothes couldn’t compliment. “Dozens of hardened criminals lying at my feet, exactly where they should be. My instincts tell me that insufferable twerp Basil was there; I do hope he got a good view of the show.” He curled his arm to admire himself as his bicep rose up like a mountain, his deep chuckling making his immense chest bounce. 

Fidget had to climb over his boss like he was a mountain, double and triple checking the numbers he was reading for the measurements; they were already astronomical, but if the new suit didn’t fit, Ratigan had threatened to put him in a headlock until his head popped clean off. “O-oh, yeah boss, I bet you left him quaking in his boots!”

“Ahh, this has put me right back to my old-self,” Ratigan sighed contentedly. “I have some big plans for this city.”