So ja… this photo.
Let’s just acknowledge the obvious first.
The sole purpose of this photo was to make me look like an absolute, dust-covered, rope-swinging, post-apocalyptic badass.
And honestly? Mission accomplished.
If testosterone had a screensaver, this would be it.
This is the kind of photo that silently says:
“When civilisation collapses, I won’t panic. I’ll adapt.”
NOW… fast-forward to yesterday.
I’m minding my own business — not saving the world, not lifting anything heavy — when my wife calls out from the house in that very specific tone that means:
👉 “This is now your problem.”
“Gert… there’s a HUGE rat in front of the back door. It’s just lying there… and it’s kicking.”
My immediate response, obviously, in full caveman mode:
“Calm down, woman. Let me check it out.”
Because that’s what men do, right?
We face danger.
We protect the tribe.
We definitely do not Google “what to do with poisoned rodents”.
So ja… there he was. As true as Bob.
Lying there was an absolute specimen of a rat.
Healthy. Glossy. Solid build.
Not one of those skinny, desperate sewer extras.
This oke had been winning at life.
I immediately named him Davy — because he looked like a Davy.
You don’t choose these things. It just happens.
Honestly? If circumstances were different, Davy could’ve been my pet.
He had confidence. Presence. Good posture… for a rat.
Except… small issue…
He was lying on his side… kicking… every now and then…
Like Windows freezing but refusing to shut down.
Poor oke definitely ate the wrong cake.
Rat poison vibes.
And let me tell you — that stuff does not play games.
I stand there longer than necessary.
Davy looks at me.
Not scared.
Not aggressive.
Just… confused. Like someone who missed a crucial meeting where the rules were explained.
I say out loud, like a madman:
“Ja Davy… this isn’t ideal, hey.” We’re now officially acquainted.
Now here’s the thing.
I might look like the guy in the photo — ropes, veins, dust, “don’t mess with me” energy —
but I’m not cruel.
Letting something suffer like that?
Nope. Not happening.
Davy wasn’t coming back.
He was already halfway checked out — just hadn’t received the final memo yet.
So… heavy heart…
I went to fetch the shovel.
And let me tell you — that walk felt LONG.
Real long.
Because suddenly Mr Post-Apocalyptic Badass wasn’t feeling very badass at all.
Standing there thinking:
“Is this how heroes are made? With garden tools?”
I come back.
Davy’s still there. Still breathing. Still kicking. Still being stubborn.
I stand over him.
Shovel in hand.
He looks up at me with these round, shiny eyes like:
“Bru… what’s happening?” I hesitate.
This is not gym suffering.
This is not discipline.
This is real suffering.
So I man up. Because kindness sometimes looks brutal. I go for it.
Except… plot twist.
That shovel was about as sharp as a butter knife.
So instead of a clean ending…
I basically pulverised his neck.
Poor Davy. And guess what?
Still. Kicking.
At this point it’s chaos. I recover quickly, panic slightly internally, and go for the head.
FLATTENED.
Blood everywhere.
On the shovel.
On me.
I look like I’ve just come back from a low-budget Viking raid sponsored by Builders Warehouse.
And yet…
With no neck…
And a head shaped like a pancake…
Davy. Is. Still. Kicking.
At this stage there is NOTHING more I can do.
No pain receptors left.
No head.
Just commitment.
So I respectfully — and very unceremoniously — pick him up and put him in a plastic bag
(yes yes, all the greenies can relax, scream, cry, ask for a paper bag…
shove it).
I walk him to the big front bin.
Place him on top.
Look at him for a moment.
No prayer.
Definitely do NOT want to meet Davy again in heaven.
I close the bin.
Walk back inside.
Hero?
Maybe.
Badass?
Depends on the day.
So ja…
Turns out the guy in the photo and the guy with the shovel are the same person.
Tough…
But also not so tough.
Life’s funny like that.
👉 Find me here at your own risk:
https://linktr.ee/gertlouw
Train like hero’s guys! Gert Louw
gertlouw 