I need to be honest with you.
With all that is going around the internet, I feel like I have to admit something that you might not agree with…
I can no longer quietly hide behind a cloak of silence and conceal who I am, or what I do… If you don’t like it, I respectfully say, as an American, “Sorry, I’m not sorry.”
I like to hunt.
No, I LOVE to hunt.
To clarify before you jump to judge me, let me explain more specifically –
I LOVE to hunt BUGS.
With the exclusion of the praying mantis and bee, I hunt any vermin with six or more legs that has a tendency to annoy, bite, pinch, prick, sting, nibble, tickle, give me goose bumps, the heebie-jeebies, screaming meemies, the willies, the jitters, cause shivers, quiver, or make me gag with just the thought of them. If they can claim me as a host, take my blood, land on my head, make creepy noises, startle me, transfer diseases, have no purpose in life, give me attitude, look at me wrong, not pay rent, or cause me to seemingly involuntarily (and without hesitation) slap my own face with a velocity and force intended to kill or maim with a mere buzz in my ear; and/or make me dance wildly, wiggle uncontrollably, rattle, roll, wave, shake, high-step, and shadow box the air with moves I reserve only for Sunday Church Service [Amen] –
If they match any one of these descriptions – I have them in my crosshairs, I’m out for blood, and its open season.
Every new can of Raid brings a new midnight expedition into the yard, or a spelunking excursion into the deep dark arthropodic bordellos of my garage, and I don’t come out until my artillery has been spent. This is no dirty joke!
You WILL NOT see me sitting lazily in my outside patio chair, watching a bug zapper do all the work while enjoying an ice cold beer. No sir, not here! That isn’t me. I don’t take shortcuts, and drinking impairs the senses! You will, however, find me (or not) hiding in the dark, blending into the shadows, peering out from behind that patio chair, scanning the horizon, ready to pounce on the slightest shadow of movement. I am a crouching tiger, hidden dragon. I stay sharp. I get focused and run through breathing techniques. I’m in the Zone. Nothing can distract me! I wear flip-flops. They are my most valuable, versatile tool and my failsafe. When all else fails, I use them for stomping, swatting, hacking, and throwing. They also allow my feet to breath and the hairs on my toes to transmit valuable wind direction, speed information and also if a bug is crawling on me. I get down and dirty. I follow the tracks and sniff for smells. I am a Bloodhound. I set the bait. I poison the puddles and set booby traps to keep them guessing. I am a Trickster. I flip rocks, Gnomes, pots, small bushes, tables (bad-asses flip tables), and anything that isn’t firmly rooted in the ground. I am a Hurricane. I’m attacking them on their home turf. Its face-to-face, hand-to-hand combat. Mano a Mayo – that’s right mayo – great for sandwiches… and bugs love sandwiches… I am not hungry, but thirsty for blood (they have blood, right?). It’s the releasing of my inner beast against the Hell spawns that creep and crawl in the night! I stake my claim at the top of the food chain, armed with my deluxe laser guided chrome tip aerosol can, accented with a Mr. Yuck sticker. I dispense death one “Pssssssft” at a time. I am the predator.
Why do I do it? Well… There is only one word that I can think of to describe the rush of getting a “Big Game” trophy kill like the blazing fast, and often elusive, wood cockroach:
I understand this sport isn’t for everyone. There have been some ungodly abominations of creepy crawlers that I have come across in the shadows. Some that look like they could only have been dreamt up in a child’s overactive imagination and somehow escaped the nightmare, forever terrorizing the earth.
I hunt that.
And before tonight, there wasn’t a thing that could stop a hunt from once it started… Well, at least that’s what I thought. Because before tonight there has always been “collateral damage” where a “friendly” would be unfortunate enough to be caught between the Predator and its prey. It just comes with the territory; a fact of war. It happens… But tonight, I saw and felt compassion for a bug…
I saw a poor hopeless Slug, scared, shielding his face, sitting there seemingly paralyzed by the carnage that was unfolding around him, wanting to run, but like in a dream, wasn’t going anywhere fast. I felt for this poor guy, after all, It’s not his fault he can’t run, he has no legs!
This just became a rescue mission. I wanted to move him out of the “Theater of Operations”, so he wouldn’t accidentally get caught in the middle and become another statistic.
Well… So, at least, in the dark it looked like a Slug, a slightly larger one, but a slug nonetheless! It definitely was squishy like a slug, but the reason it didn’t look like it was “moving fast” was because it wasn’t moving at all…
Meet Stinky, he totally killed the mood of the hunt.