April seven, nine a.m.
The day is marked on one of the pages of my life’s achievement as the most sadistic, brutal cockroach slayer ever.
Splat… pushck… smuick… My cold-blooded hands have slain the most number of roaches ever in a single day. Maybe 25… maybe 30… but it’s definitely more than twenty. Normally, the maximum is only about five.
Yeaa, I have mercilessly quashed these pesky little pests into flattened bits of fragile, cold-blooded carcasses, and with concerted efforts from my fellow slayer brethren around the globe, these nitwits can be expunged from the face of the earth, so humans will finally be free from the thoughts of these elusive creatures roaming every single air pocket that escapes the glares of direct fluorescent light far above, including the panel gaps around my cubicle walls, inside the keyboards, underneath the carpet… and the list goes on and on… you name it.
All the foods that I kept in my container under the table are air-tight sealed made via stringent quality control that even surpassed standard angkasawan test of putting batu seremban in the vacuum space to see how they naturally dance in zero gravity.
I even bought the all-natural lemon grass cubes that looks like your typical closet moth buster a.k.a naphtha solids , that costs me like half buck a piece. But these tiny critters seem to be jaywalking all around the cables near the area where I strategically assign one of the cubes.
And the shit that they produce… the hard roundish feces scattered beneath my phone and my mouse pad.
But these type of roaches are so easy for my fingers, with the help of used tissue paper, to prey them on, unlike the toxic Sheltox pesticides (from my friendly neighbor), nauseating general-purpose perfume sprays (routinely sprayed in haphazard directions by the usual cleaner) and environmental-friendly lemon-grass cubes.
Which brings me to the solution of problems that seem so elusive everytime you try to flattened them out. Sometimes we can be too politically incorrect and quick in resorting to brute force that we ended up poluting ourselves, be too fearful to the point where we reduce our problem-solving techniques to mere smokescreens, and be too politically correct in a way that we don’t get anything done just for the sake of adhering to common wisdoms we thought people around us would hang on to.
Just be direct, slay what needs to be slain and get back to work.
Lone lil-black-roach Poncho paying his last respect to his squashed fellow buddy lying underneath the twisted bridges.
Man… if their shit-generating capacity is inherent in our digestive systems, each of us would have been poo-ing dungs, each having the size of a basketball.
Don’t look back… run with all your strength and might!
The twisted bridge gets more twisted for the poor creepy-crawly chap…
You can run but you can’t hide…
Aah, another flattened nano-sized comrade dying in the path of dignity and honor in search for eternal nano-food munching…
Rest in Peace (Obituary for Poncho the Roach, April 6 3:53am - April 9 9:09 am)… Al-Fatihah.
