Once upon a time, in an age long forgotten because it was somewhat boring and contrived, there was this picturesque hamlet full of God-fearing wholesome people.
They had everything they could ever wish for—with a healthy side-serving of strong moral fibre—and yet their lives were not as fine and dandy as they would've liked them to be.
You see, they had all these coked-up rats running around the place, freaking everybody out.
They tried all kinds of things to get them to fuck off, but they just kept coming back in ever larger numbers.
The mayor was getting antsy. The elections were around the corner and his progressive Fascist-Calvinist coalition government was being challenged from the right.
No matter how much due process he ignored when sending rats to the gallows, he couldn't shake the stigma of being “soft on crime.” He lamented how unreasonable the electorate had become.
Out of desperation, he visited his trusty psychic.
The psychic told him to hire a professional.
“A professional? Whatever could that mean?!” wondered the mayor. “Darn wise people, they can be so cryptic.”