Yick, The Rat Catcher of Shanghai

[my life is trash]

Yick sat in the dimly lit alley, the stench of rotting garbage mingling with the faint smell of cooking oil from a nearby street vendor. He clutched a skewer of grilled rats, the charred flesh a grim reminder of his desperation. 'This is it,' he muttered to himself, the arrogance that once fueled his delusions of grandeur now reduced to a hollow echo. Yick, a man who once boasted of conquering the world, now found himself at the mercy of China's unforgiving streets. His tailored suit, once a symbol of his supposed superiority, was now tattered and stained, a reflection of his plummeting fortunes. He took a bite of the rat, the bitter taste a stark contrast to the sweetness of his imagined success. 'Pathetic,' he hissed, spitting out a piece of gristle. 'Absolutely pathetic.'

Yick's days were spent wandering the streets, clutching a tattered resume, and his nights were filled with the sound of scurrying rats. He had developed a peculiar habit—eating rats. Not out of hunger, but out of defiance. 'If China won't give me success,' he thought, 'I'll take what I can get.'

One evening, as he sat in a dimly lit internet café, he stumbled upon the Happier Abroad forum. It was a community of expatriates sharing their experiences, seeking advice, and occasionally, tearing each other down. Yick, ever the opportunist, decided to post his story. 'How to succeed in China when you're a British failure?' he titled his post.

The responses were immediate. 'You're not cut out for this,' Kangarunner wrote. 'Go back to your mother's basement,' NPCSlammer chimed in. But one response caught his eye. It was from a user named Voyager1. 'You're worthless here,' Voyager1 wrote. 'China doesn't need your kind. Pack your bags and go home.'

Yick seethed. Who was this Voyager1 to tell him what to do? 'You're not just failing in China,' Voyager1 continued. 'You're failing at life. It's time to face the music.'

Yick's pride was wounded, but deep down, he knew Voyager1 was right. He had failed in Britain, and now, he was failing in China. The rats he ate every night were a reminder of his desperation. He couldn't even afford proper food, let alone the life of luxury he had envisioned.

With a heavy heart, Yick booked a ticket back to Britain. As the plane took off, he gazed out the window, watching as China faded into the distance. He thought about Voyager1's words and the rats he had grown accustomed to eating. 'Maybe,' he thought, 'it's time to stop chasing the world and start fixing myself.'

When he arrived home, Yick found himself standing in front of his mother's house. The basement was waiting for him, just as Voyager1 had suggested. But this time, he didn't feel ashamed. He felt... ready. Ready to face his failures, ready to change, and ready to leave the rats of Shanghai behind.

[Voyager1]

Yick sat in the dimly lit alley, the stench of rotting garbage mingling with the faint smell of cooking oil from a nearby street vendor. He clutched a skewer of grilled rats, the charred flesh a grim reminder of his desperation. 'This is it,' he muttered to himself, the arrogance that once fueled his delusions of grandeur now reduced to a hollow echo. Yick, a man who once boasted of conquering the world, now found himself at the mercy of China's unforgiving streets. His tailored suit, once a symbol of his supposed superiority, was now tattered and stained, a reflection of his plummeting fortunes. He took a bite of the rat, the bitter taste a stark contrast to the sweetness of his imagined success. 'Pathetic,' he hissed, spitting out a piece of gristle. 'Absolutely pathetic.'

Yick's days were spent wandering the streets, clutching a tattered resume, and his nights were filled with the sound of scurrying rats. He had developed a peculiar habit—eating rats. Not out of hunger, but out of defiance. 'If China won't give me success,' he thought, 'I'll take what I can get.'

One evening, as he sat in a dimly lit internet café, he stumbled upon the Happier Abroad forum. It was a community of expatriates sharing their experiences, seeking advice, and occasionally, tearing each other down. Yick, ever the opportunist, decided to post his story. 'How to succeed in China when you're a British failure?' he titled his post.

The responses were immediate. 'You're not cut out for this,' Kangarunner wrote. 'Go back to your mother's basement,' NPCSlammer chimed in. But one response caught his eye. It was from a user named Voyager1. 'You're worthless here,' Voyager1 wrote. 'China doesn't need your kind. Pack your bags and go home.'

Yick seethed. Who was this Voyager1 to tell him what to do? 'You're not just failing in China,' Voyager1 continued. 'You're failing at life. It's time to face the music.'

Yick's pride was wounded, but deep down, he knew Voyager1 was right. He had failed in Britain, and now, he was failing in China. The rats he ate every night were a reminder of his desperation. He couldn't even afford proper food, let alone the life of luxury he had envisioned.

With a heavy heart, Yick booked a ticket back to Britain. As the plane took off, he gazed out the window, watching as China faded into the distance. He thought about Voyager1's words and the rats he had grown accustomed to eating. 'Maybe,' he thought, 'it's time to stop chasing the world and start fixing myself.'

When he arrived home, Yick found himself standing in front of his mother's house. The basement was waiting for him, just as Voyager1 had suggested. But this time, he didn't feel ashamed. He felt... ready. Ready to face his failures, ready to change, and ready to leave the rats of Shanghai behind.

Don't forget he's headed off to Peru

[Voyager1]

Good writing. Almost as good as Tsar's

[yick]

You're just a pair of losers. One, a sex tourist and the other a failed sex tourist.