The Rat-Man of Yellowdale Industrial

He was a singularly odd shaped man, reminiscent of a sort of Innsmouth type but rodentlike rather than piscine. His shoulders were grotesquely rounded, in the manner of a quadruped almost, like an otter or squirrel, his short arms projected forward and down, no hint of the Germanic squareness one considers the norm. His spine was perpetually kinked, shoulders drooping forward, his neck bent but head erect. He possessed little muscle, the very specimen of the skinnyfat other than his forearms, which were noticeably muscular in a coarse and unrefined way. His gut protruded somewhat over a pair of chicken legs and an almost hollow chest.

His face was the true mystery however: a small brachycephalic cranium, a low forehead and ears, his eyes were almost black with yellowish whites, extremely close set under a unibrow. I confess I never really observed the degree of his canthal tilt, not wishing to fixate upon his features any longer than necessary, or worse, attract his attention. He had a narrow face with an even narrower jaw, heavily recessed without a hint of chin to be seen, something of a wattled neck, usually covered in mottled coarse stubble. His cramped yellow teeth stuck out in a manner that suggested he might nip one if angered, a rather ratty aspect. His nose was grotesque, concave at the bridge and slightly upturned, extremely broad, yet unlike some such noses which resemble swine, with defined characteristics, his seemed instead swollen, inflamed, as though one had taken a regular nose (perhaps made of rubber for some stretch) and injected it with jelly until it lost its fine shapes and ballooned to the point of absurdity.

He moved awkwardly and tended to scurry, hunched over, lessening his already low height (five foot seven, approximately), darting about uneasily with a horrid little frown, looking for something to take issue with. His hands were immensely stubby, not quite the level of a midget but not far off either, clumsy and shapeless things unfavorable in comparison to a paw, scabrously nailed. He spoke with a defined Canadian accent, half aboots and ehs, which lent a distinctly surreal air to any conversation.

Though in his late middle age, end of his fifties or so, he occasionally made an effort to rejuvenate his image, cutting and styling his drab brownish hair, shaving his unibrow, squeezing into not-quite-skinny-jeans and tennis shoes, hiding his paunch behind a cheap polyester polo shirt. The result resembled nothing else but a shaven cologne dipped rat stuffed into a vague idea of millennial fashion circa 2011.

In combination, these traits resulted in a creature that seemed to harm one to look at for too long or in too great detail, residing squarely in the uncanny valley, rather some form of vermin in human shape, calling to mind the changeling of myth, a troll-child. I would have given much to learn his ancestry and  composition had I a way to do so without having to talk to him, but he in rat fashion suddenly got rid of me the moment I had gotten his inventory numbers up and equipment restored. I hope to have seen the last of him, what ever he is.

Clark is a bugman taxonomist

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