… So go to sleep bitch, die motherf*cker, die. Time’s up, bitch, close your eyes. – Eminem
An old X-Files episode, “War of the Coprophages,” centers on a town brought down to its collective knees by an infestation of cockroaches.
I am somewhat depressed to find my present living quarters to be a version of said town. The bathroom especially is a Body Shop-scented horror-fest. Even with shampoo running down my face, I try keep a vigilant eye on all surroundings, ready to jump out at the merest hint of something brown and quick, moving on long, bent, monstrous legs of doom in the corner of my vision. Not only did Mother Nature beat these things with the ugly stick, she also made them into unrepentant perverts.
Scavenging in the dark is somewhat forgivable, but attacking a naked girl in her shower is crossing over into “Psycho” territory. They say that Oriental cockroaches are attracted to light; what they fail to mention is that they are also attracted to the ladiez in a sick, degenerate way that, in a just world, would see them locked up forever in a maze full of hungry geckos and steroid-addled centipedes.
One hideous, malformed Child of Hades scuttled into the bedroom and tried to graze my foot lovingly while I was on a business call. It was a scene straight out of Kafka, and my partner’s eardrums may never be the same. I killed him (the cockroach, not the partner) with spray, and today I killed what I only hope is his dear, dear auntie – also with spray, since the fungal roach bait is becoming less attractive to these living abominations.
I’ve spent way too much time worrying about zombies and colossal squid, while the real threat grew unseen in old and rusted water pipes. What does a warrior do in such a situation? (Besides uttering a piercing scre… er, war-shriek, and bravely buggering off) The hunted must become the hunter. One’s inner Jim from “28 Days Later” (not whiny, unshaven Jim, but killing machine/smooth operator Jim) has to be unleashed.
At the gym, I improve my endurance, patiently shaving milliseconds off the time it takes me to react to the atrocity emerging from between my shampoo bottles and bolt for the death-spray. I also work on my arms, making sure I’m strong enough to deliver the perfect blow with my Nine West pump. I’m not a sadistic person, but the glee I experience at seeing one of these servants of Satan twitch its evil appendages as it expires makes me wonder if I should start moonlighting as an exterminator of sorts:
Except, in my case, I’d wear combat boots and a stars n’ stripes bikini, blast Iron Maiden in the background, pour kerosene down the pipes, and greet the exodus with a vengeful rain of armour-piercing bullets laced with boric acid, cyanide, and the ground-up teeth of evil clowns. If the house blows up, I’ll take them with me, and they, in the immortal words of Renegade Evolution, can suck my strap-on in hell ’till doomsday.
And you shall know me by the trail of dead, etcetera, etcetera.