There are probably many reasons why Cakes did not want to eat the last rat on the plate. First of all, it was a rat. Not to make that last part any less horrifying, but the rat wasn’t even dead. It was in a quasi dead state; Cakes remembered that one time he got drunk at Kong’s flat and woke up feeling like a small caterpillar in a loud, shiny, uncomfortable world.
The rat was Cakes with a hangover. Only smaller, dirtier, and far, far smellier. Cakes hated the fact that he was being offered a chance to eat himself, after the old women had all taken one each. The short, ugly one was staring at him now. Hard. He gulped. Twice.
The gulping was not helping at all. All six of them were now staring at him, all six short ugly old women, except the one to his right, who was tall and ugly. Between them they had about 10 and a half beady eyes to stare him with, and twelve very wrinkled, gnarly, yet impossibly strong hands to force feed him hungover rats with.
Cakes gave the scenario much thought and decided the best course of action was to faint. He promptly proceeded to do so.