Title: The Death of Rats
Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld. Or House, either.
A/N: Well, I was thinking, and avoiding doing work, and reading the comments on my stories, and I came across a few that suggested I write about the Grim Squeaker. And then I thought some more, and then I was like, "Steve McQueen!" And then this happened. I hope you enjoy.
Steve McQueen was a smart rat. He could remember the time before, when he'd lived in the scary lady's attic. When he thought about it, he realized that his life was a lot better these days, even if he didn't have as much room to run around in. For one thing, he got fed peanut butter sandwiches sometimes, a food which he hadn't known existed while living in the attic. And sometimes that guy who was always around let him out of the cage so he could run through the apartment.
But the one thing he didn't think about was dying. Sure, he'd been around for quite a few years, and he wasn't getting any younger, but who thinks about old age? Rats don't. (1)
Nevertheless, Steve McQueen was getting old. He noticed that he was slower, and he thought that guy noticed too, but they were both good at ignoring things they didn't want to dwell on.
One morning, with the inevitability that only two things have (2), the Grim Squeaker came for Steve.
"Squeak?" asked Steve McQueen.
"SQUEAK," replied the Death of Rats.
Steve stayed around for a little while, though he could feel his morphic field weakening (3), and he saw that guy bury him in the window box, then play piano and pretend not to cry.
(1)They tend not to live long enough. Those shiny things with cheese on them are so pretty and those blue pellets look really tasty, too.
(2)Except that rats don't pay taxes.
(3)He didn't put it quite like this, because, of course, rats don't know anything about morphic fields.