Walking down 40th. Rain pounds the floor like a drum. Girls in garments and gowns scamper to find shelter and avoid the cold showers. I don't care, but then again when have I ever? I tip my hat and shimmy my long brown coat up my damp corpse of a body. I carry on.
 I approach the bar. The shiny shamrock, a small Irish bar at the heart of the big apple. I have gone there for twelve years. In fact exactly twelve years, not that I care. When you open the door you will spot many things, for instance the barman, Shamus. Shamus is an old, old fellow, large grey mutton chops and not a hair on his head, he wears a flat cap and a green waist coat every single day. A real catch to any ladies eyes. You will never find Shamus without a pint glass in his hand and a flannel in his other . Secondly you will see his ex-wife. She owns half the joint, not that she should, and she is there to make things run smoothly. That is what she says, she spends every waking hour by the bar on that stool in the corner, with a cigarette in her gob and bats her eyes. Don’t worry everyone gets a go. And most do. She is riddled with more virus than a hospital and by most part I can tell. The third things you will notice are the regulars. Half at the bar guzzling draught like they hadn’t seen water for a week. The rest were either fast out on the pool table or in a some sort of insult spouting war about a sport.
But why am I here? Neither for the service, nor to drown sorrows. I am there strictly for business, many people have a building to meet and do business. But the business I do, ain't quite the normal business that normal people would do. In fact, it isn’t the type of business that any one does, except for yours truly.  You see, I am the Rat. And I work for people.  People pay the Rat and they get all the information they need. I have notes on the coppers, the gangs and even the Mafia and I can get you anything you need within a twitch. And you will receive, said information, without me leaving a print.
 I am the bond between the truth and what the real truth is. My clients come in all shapes and sizes. Mickey the stick, stringy fellow, wanted me to follow his bird and make sure she wasn’t sticking her tits in another man’s business. So I do, I tell and I earn. That is my business, that is what I do and I do it well. I don’t care if the NYPD finds a 30 something lady chopped in half, left in a back alley, killed by her husband who caught her in the act of sin. That ain’t my business.  When a drug related gang war begins because release information shows that both gangs supply the distributor with the same product. That. Ain’t. My.Business.
 But less on them and more on me. I am the Rat. I am quick, sneaky and have teeth like tile grout. People don’t know me, I know people. When I do business I know who I am dealing with, they do not know who they are dealing with. Rat traps have been lane and exterminators have been called to find and kill the Rat but no luck. I am the man that meets in the small Irish bar to talk business, I and don’t care what it is.