Alcohol, body odor, and death.

That's what Mortimer smelt like. Sitting on the floor of the catacombs, chugging down bottle after bottle of cheap whiskey. Not slowing for a moment. Whiskey helped. It made him feel better. It made him forget.

A rat squeaked and Mortimer's head snapped towards it, eyebrows furrowing before his tongue lept out and wrapped around the small, furry rodent. Mortimer swallowing it down whole.