I don't own the movie, of course. It's a bit of a short narrative, actually, it's a piece of shit. Enjoy.
- - -
The whole damned event seemed almost like a fleeting, terrible thought when one contemplates the wretched demise of everything he holds dear.
Mr. Martin was destoying - ending Socrates' life with a volley of merciless, proud blows, and he was destroying, but he did not know what he was destroying, and with every begging screech the rodent let cry, Willard flinched, flinched and felt himself being pulled, bit by bit, farther from his hold on the world. Besides, a rat is so easy to crush.
Willard hadn't heard what Mr.Martin said before he landed his final crack on his only friend, but he had seen Ben, staring at him with his "tsktsk what are we to do now" stare on the top of the storage self, sitting fat and pleased and eeriely clever. He had seen Mr.Martin's smug grin as he walked past, welcomed into a barrage of praises from his fellow co-workers, not giving a second's shit about the murder he left behind. His proud "that's that" grin as he swaggered along, with the aire of the lionhearted knight who had slain the wicked beast.
And so it seemed to of only been a fleeting, terrible thought until Willard witnessed the pink and stiff and broken form on the back of the shelf. Left contorted in it's blood - the hellish realization that everything was over. Willard felt a surge of grief, the denying kind, the infuriating fresh kind that lodges itself into your throat until you given up on hoping anymore. His eyes burned beneath their lids and his jaw trembled as his bite tightened and he felt the stare of Ben. Big Ben, the not so smart and the leader after Socrates. Socrates' second fiddle. But Socrates was dead.
Willard opened his eyes, and his mind creaked and ticked and his once shock turned into burning anger and revenge and what could I do what could I do what could I do.
"What can I do?" he whispered to himself, his mind turning for the perfect answer. He remained Willard Stiles by name, but this Willard, just then, possesed nothing the least bit mundane. Martin had taken his mother, Dearest Father, Socrates, and now he was at his throat for his house. Mr.Martin had Stiles blood on his hands, no, not just his hands, but blood up to his elbows. However, as Willard conspired, Socrates dead form still in his eyes, there surfaced a part of himself unknown by everyone. And the creaking and ticking took a new tempo.
Willard was the Rat King, and his thoughts turned to his subjects, his scurrying, writhing, biting, deadly rat army, loyal to the death and oh-so-intellegent - and his what could I do what could I do what can we do.
He cricked his head at Ben, his new everything, his once after Socrates. He smiled, a tear sliding down to his twisted mouth.
"What could we do?"