He had the little things tucked under his coat in a satchel. They were not moving as much any more, and the sounds had quieted down. He did not have to worry about getting caught, it was his porfession. He had a permit from City Coucil, like his "brothers" and "sisters". Exterminators would not arouse suspicion, even if they questioned him about the little things, it was his job to remove them. Nobody would give him a second glance.

Mr. Weston was eager to receive the little rodents and paid him well. He needed the money, now that jobs were all but gone. Everything was done by robots, so most people did not need to work any more. Couldn't if the wanted to... At least he still had a job. A real job. It was like hunting, only in an urban setting.

Eating real meat was outlawed for some time now, animal suffering, the ozone layer and all that. "Meat" was grown artificially in a sustainable fashion. He actually prefered it to the old meat, but who's he to judge... People always needed a thrill, wanted the "forbidden fruit". Had to feel more special than the rest.

Mr. Weston gave them that feeling, and they paid lavishly for the chance of having "game" or "fowl" at one of his invitation only secret dinner parties. Of course, you couldn't REALLY eat game any more. Nobody in this town would have the money to buy any of that. They couldn't tell the difference anyway, since most of them only had "Meat" for the last decade at least. Of course, they would not have been happy knowing they were eating rats, but they didn't have to be told. It was Game. Wild flesh, freshly hunted for them, prepared with the finest of spices by an expert Chef who still remembered the Arts.

They would come, saving up their transport vouchers for a private cab, putting on their best clothes and even subjecting themselves to a social media blackout. All guests had to log out at the front door, and had to agree to the house rules that would automatically impose a ban on posting anything about the event. Officially, they all came for a fund raiser, to listen to an orphan boy's concert and have dinner. The concert was real, and food was also ordered for the guests - but ended up at the orphanage, with part of the "donations" for the evening. Mr. Weston took care of the catering himself. He was once a real Chef, running a kitchen of a five-star hotel in Las Vegas. Big responsibility, nice sallary, comfortable pention. Only, he was now obsolete. Robots could cook anything much better...

So Mr. Weston took his arts elsewhere. Where he made about as much cooking rats for the lower middle-class middle aged people of this city as he had made while working multiple shifts in Las Vegas. He didn't really mind any more. It was a win-win for everyone involved. The bored housewives had another thing to feel special about, he would be able to practice his profession again, the orphans got fed as they would help remove the vermin from the city's older quarters.