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2005-03-23 - 3:58 p.m.

“That’s one big honkin’ mama!”

“It’s a roach.”

“A honkin’ mama Roach, yeah!”

She cowered a little, then ran to get the RAID while I marveled at this gleaming beast. Almost the breath of my thumb this bad boy could have boxed a preying mantis and won: a fine piece of organic engineering.

Shaking a can of poison she strode in with determined warrior countenance and steeled herself before ducking down to the floor.

“C’mere buggy!”

Ducked beneath the table, trying to find him in the wires, she scanned the wall before realizing our prey had enough sense to hide behind a table leg. After a few seconds I grabbed the table and yanked it away from the wall. With a flutter of wings and a yelp, the spray can sputtered into action, drooling out a piddling little tide, like one that might stem from a drunken basketball fan asleep on the couch.

“Oh, Damnit!”

Bits of white foam just crumbled from the spout falling far from the offending insect. The not-so little guy then spread his wings and made a leap ontop of the table in a rare display of acrobatics for the eight-legged.

“He’s a spry little bastard.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Do you have any paper towels?”


Feeling a surge of manliness take my will, I took the can, and walked up into the roach’s face, draining out the last few drops of RAID onto his antennae.

“Drink it up! There you go! Drink it up!”

After the wars with the rodent clan, there is something simple and pleasing about a struggle with a roach. The mice can skitter and dodge, whereas roaches tend to simply waggle their mandibles at you as you lower your heel. Whatever shots to my honor and dignity were dealt in my flopping-around-in-my-boxers tussles with the whiskered ones, they were redeemed, usually, in my efficacy demolishing the roach population.

“He ran that way! Get him! Get him!”

“I got it, I got it.”

Somehow I got so caught up in trying to drown the interloper in chemical weapons that despite the fact he was on the floor, a bit punchy from the punch, I didn’t think to just step on him, dribbling drop after drop on his back.

“It’s not working!”

Finally, I remembered I had feet. I just forgot how to use them.

“Gaaaa! Don’t kick him at me!”

“I’m sorry! Where’d he go?”

“Over there! Over there!”

The towering brute had finally slowed, either exhausted from the screaming sprints around the kitchen, or the fumes finally got to him. My opponent against the ropes, antennae circling, I closed in.

“You done reading this New York Magazine?”


“How about the back cover?”

With one resounding whack, the hunt was over. I tore out a page about the current economic situation in Bosnia and scooped up the refugee, finally making my deposit in the septic bank.

“My god he was the size of a Buick.”

“Thanks, Woody.”

“Do I get a cookie?”

“Go get one yourself, I’m not coming near you till you wash your hands.”

All Hail the Conquering Hero.

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