Soup.

I did not have this book in my loft. Image by spike55151 via Flickr. The soup wasn't too bad actually. All things considered, Max hadn't done a bad job. He'd managed to get out of the attic, explaining the locks were only really effective against rats anyway, and was seated opposite me. It slipped my notice at the time, but if one were to observe us, they would notice Max had no  soup in front of him - even though he got through last night with only books to eat (The rat bit him and escaped in what he called a "hamster helicopter")

 Anyhow, I asked Max exactly how he was now the owner of a wooden arm, since the whole rat-attic joke situation - which Max spent two days working on - didn't answer the question.
 He explained the rats, of which he had obtained many, had chewed his arm off while he was distracted by television. I didn't really know how that could happen, but I no longer cared. Max would only explain what'd happened if I asked more questions anyway.
 "What happened to the rats?" I asked.
 "Oh, after they bit me, I hit them with a mallet!" He replied. A fear began to grow inside my tum-tums, spreading up to my neck and down to my loins.
 "Then I put them in the soup. Seemed tidy, and damn efficient."
I nodded, putting the soup spoon down sadly.

Still, I was hungry, and I'd been a student. Deciding I'd probably eaten worse, I picked the spoon up again.

 At least it wasn't tramp...