“This is war, Peacock.” – Clue.
You know those old westerns, or those new space westerns, wherein the intrepid hero walks into a saloon or bar and all eyes turn to him? When everyone is waiting for the hero to do something stupid – such as order a glass of milk or fail to kiss the local gangster’s ass in a sufficiently enthusiastic fashion? Yeah, this is my life at the moment.
The cockroaches are waiting for me to do something stupid. Yesterday, they got their chance. I kept the light off in the hallway as I worked. I allowed myself to ignore a faint rustling noise. And I got a f*cking cockroach crawling up my leg.
I even suspect he was trying to hump it.
The only thing that saved my brain from overloading and powering off was the beer I had drunk half an hour before. Say what you want about alcohol, but it does have that certain dulling effect at times. Perhaps intrepid heroes everywhere should re-examine their relationship with it. I certainly have, in these last, dark weeks.
I’m not really sure what great lesson I am supposed to learn from this war of attrition. If it goes down in history books, it will be one of those wars that no one wants to learn about, featured heavily on essay questions in stuffy classrooms in the world over (Hundred Years’ War, Thirty Years’ War, the War of the Roses). For every strike, there is a measured counterstrike.
Perhaps the cockroaches don’t see it that way – perhaps killing roughly 100 by putting poison in the pipes between the garage and the stairs is seen, by them, as way, way worse than the single act of harassment last night. At least, I can only hope so. I want them to lament the terrors of my pesticide arsenal, goddamit. I want them to build remembrance museums. I want them to shoot documentaries about it, featuring the moody music of Phillip Glass and constant reminders that “viewer discretion is advised” between commercial breaks.
1,000 years from now, I want some pipe-smoking cockroach linguist to write an epic based in part on the legendary events of the stairwell. Half a century later, I want a blockbuster trilogy to be filmed, complete with stubble-chinned method actors.
What pesticide I spray in life – damn better echo in eternity. No just God could let all that stylized violence (*shriek* *flying shoe* *spurting pus* *another shriek*) go to waste.