The Centipedes Strike Back

"The raptors have been systematically testing the fences for weaknesses. They never attack the same spot twice. They remember...." Robert Muldoon in JURASSIC PARK

I was attacked in my home last night. By all rights, I should have seen it coming. There I was. Guard down and everything, reading Louis Borges' Collected Fictions when I felt something hit my shoulder. I jumped up, brushing myself off furiously, blind to whatever contemptible operative had tried to ambush me in my own bedroom. There was nothing for a moment, and then I saw it.

There on my floor lay a four-inch long centipede. He grinned at me and scuttled for my bed as I screamed for my roommate. He came in, dreary-eyed, foggy.

"Under there," I said.

He retreated into the bathroom, returned with a length of toilet paper, and promptly dispatched the little bastard. He said nothing, and went back to sleep.

I should have known that the winter months hadn't killed off these vicious fucks, and I was a fool not to suspect a preliminary attack before summer gets in full swing, breeding a whole legion of the slimy things. They must remember, of course, the War I waged against them in the thick, waning days of August when their numbers began to dwindle and their strategic Battle Wizards retreated into the depths of the house where I could not reach them. We killed many back in those days, and I've always suspected a resurgent element of the initial cell to come back thirsty for carnage.

I had seen a few scouts in the basement a week or so ago, but never did I expect such an audacious attempt at my life so early in the season. I also did not expect that the Centipedes would have allied themselves. It seems they are in league with the Wasps, as evidenced by the nest I suspect is in my ceiling. The fact that there is a large lateral crack running the length of my room does not put my spirits at rest either. In this way, the Wasps are allowed ready access to my room, and again, I was accosted by one of theirs.

At first, the thing seemed disoriented. He repeatedly ran into the light bulb and got stuck behind my poster of Salvador Dali's "Elephants". As he settled down, though, I could see he was watching me.

This is it, I thought. No roommates to take a potential sting. No Raid. I was going to have to do the thing guerrilla-style or be skewered.

So I picked up a copy of The Rainmaker by John Grisham, a spectacularly awful book that I wouldn't have used if the wasp wasn't hovering menacingly between me and my bookshelf. I would rather have used The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Complete Sherlock Holmes. Hell, even a copy of The Talisman by Stephen King would have been a more fitting weapon. Alas. It was not meant to be, and I approached with a solid block of Grisham's garble in my right hand.

The wasp twitched causing me to run out of the room instead.

I quickly decided I needed a weapon with more range. Something toxic. Chemical warfare had always served despots well in the past, and the spray bottle of bleech under the kitchen sink should be just the ticket. Perhaps it was not as potent as the neurotoxins I used in my days as a housepainter, but pump enough bleech into just about any living thing and chances are it's not going to be feeling too well.

The crafty fucker had affixed himself to the pull cord of the ceiling fan and was hiding on the opposite side of it knowing full well that I didn't want to soak my favorite flannel. Collateral damage was not an option. Moving slowly around to the right so as not to spook him, I positioned my arm so as to get a straight shot.

I blasted that fucker with enough bleech to choke a speed-addled Komodo Dragon and discarded him in a paper cup once he was done twitching.

But the war ain't over yet. I'll have to bolster my ranks if I am to put up a fight, and if the moth circling my head means what I think it does, this thing could get out of hand.