Thursday, November 21, 2013

In the Moth of Madness

There's nothing more unnerving than being on the phone with your wife when she suddenly changes the subject so that she can scream incoherently. Fortunately it was only a moth, which I dispatched with a cloud of Raid and a paper napkin as soon as I got home. But no sooner had I cracked my knuckles in preparation to write my latest brilliant missive did yet another shriek of despair echo through our once-placid domain.


This time the moth chose to lurk right above the living room couch where Sylvia was resting, which increased the tempo, urgency and volume of Sylvia's pleas. Manfully I stood upon the couch and held the spray can aloft, pressing the trigger home to inundate the stubborn beast with all the fury of modern chemistry. Unfortunately the beast fell straight down, landing on my chest. Frankly I wanted to start screaming too, but I figured that if I started to panic at that point Sylvia might actually lose consciousness, so I merely grimaced and shook the thing onto the couch, which set Sylvia to screaming again.

There could be no mercy this time. I held the Raid at point-blank range over the bug's twitching form and cried havoc, burying it in toxic foam. Then I scooped it up in paper towel and crushed it, only half-deafened by Sylvia's hysterical (and I use the term tightly) wails.

Once the beast was slain, Sylvia relaxed.

"What if it had landed on you when it fell?" I asked.

"I would have passed out," she said flatly. I think I believe her.

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