It was the dead rat that did it.

Packed delicately in an artificiallyaged black walnut box with my name inscribed in the same kind of stuff you found dripping out of your molar that one morning and knew it had to go.

Well, this had to go too. Cautiously picking it up by the tip of its tail, I carried it over to the rodent disposal, wondering all the while who in the world would send me such a thing. Just as I prepared to Bombs Away, I noticed some strange markings on the creature's waxy, tail. Fanmail from some flounder? No, this is what I rea//y call a message:

Stranglers/RattusNorvegicus IV On A&M Records

After I'd made a quick appointment for my annual bubonic plague booster, I sat down to ponder the cuteness of the idea. Cute nothing, this was positively adorable I decided as I dialed A&M with a hatchet.

"Gimme a High Ranking Executive and pronto, switchboard-face."

Buzz, whirr.

"Hello Rick! Goddamn, it's been a long time! Haven't seen you since the anniversary party for Peggy Upton's first body hair!"

"You know very well I can't understand a word you're saying with that stupid trumpet in the phone, so just listen! What's with this dead rat you sent me?"

"Oh thatl Neat idea, huh?"

"About as neat as waking up in bed with a roto-tiller."

"Hey man! Don't mess your nice on my account! Listen, the problem is that you're on the wrong list!"

"Story of my life."

"Haha, dig ya! I bet you're on the list for junk we send to CREEM writers and scum like that! You shoulda seen the jar of Cayuga River-bottom muck we sent 'em for Styx!"

"So that's what that—"

"Never you sweat! Starting today; you're on the A-list. And listen, I'm going to a price-hike conspiracy meeting this afternoon, and I'll make sure you get on everybody's list, even Amherst."

"This is the sound of me holding my breath."

"That's the spirit! Well, have to moto now, champ! Gotta see a man about a horse."

The deluge began the very next day, but it was truly an "A" deluge. While I had grown accustomed to receiving small, statutory gifts like t-shirts, buttons, crayons, lemon-squeezers and the like, I wasn't prepared for any of this: A beautiful marine biologist courtesy of Sea Level, and a level-headed cowgirl from the Eagles. A David Bowie mystery sex organ kit. A 16mm film of John Cale's autograph. Tickets to see Meatloaf get out of the shower and BTO eat tundra. An actual photo of some makeup without Kiss.

This "A" phase, as I called it, lasted for quite some time. I rapidly accumulated an entire wardrobe of class-rags with other people's names on them, as well as handy utensils for the kitchen, living room, bedroom and—of course —a crawlspace heater from the Dead Boys. Incredible women with call-girl breath were knocking on my door at all hours, and I noticed that my mailman now arrived in a limo.

After having apparently exhausted all the normal means of courting my good favor (although I had long ago given up writing for luxury), the dufflefolk at List Central moved me up to what must have been their A + list —this meant presents from the .artists themselves. The Godz arranged for a thunderhead to rain hail the size and shape of guitars on my Black Oak country estate for a day. Somebody sent a discolored pair of Freddie Mercury's danced-in stage shorts. The note with those said "how would you like to wrap these around a mike stand:" Mike who?

Eno sent nothing.

Then came the series of empty boxes, each one slightly larger than the last, that began arriving at my Blackmore's Rainbow castle in the Alps one paranoically cloudy day. These vacant containers gradually increased in size for three weeks, until they peaked at the approximate length and girth of a Johnson-sized casket. After that morning, all of which I spent underneath my Blondie brass bed, the still-empty packages began decreasing in size until, exactly three weeks later, nothing was delivered. Unless there was a speck of postal dust on the drawbridge that I somehow missed.

Somebody was trying to tell me something, and since I knew that my parents didn't own any record labels, it had to be something really sinister. I had just sat all my t-shirts and fishcollars down for a serious heart-toheart when the doorbell rang.

It was the mailman. He'd set his ABBA copter down near the Grunt moat (conveniently filled with Hot Tuna). Wearing a black postal uniform with flowing tails, the wind from the still-whirling blades shoveled his hair enigmatically over his brow. Still, it couldn't hide the devilish gleam in his eyes as he handed me a single envelope.

"That's all there is today, Mr. Johnson," he said with a pre-cackle. Observing a certain poiptiness in his teeth I had not noticed earlier, I accepted the letter, went inside, and pushed my Kiss Army inflato-bunker against the door. Finger trembling, I opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of A&M stationery with these words:

"This was your promo life! Loaned for promotional purposes only. Not for sale. Ownership and all rights reserved. Surprise!"

There was no signature, but the unmistakable imprints of trumpet valves could be seen around the edges of the paper.

Gimme back my rat.