Or, The Cockroach from Hell

Call me Ishmael... No, stuff that, call me Anthony, and call me shell-shocked by some severe entomological homicide-induced post-traumatic stress disorder.

After a lovely day of haircuts, laughter, mid-afternoon rain and then sunshine and clambering around beaches and over rocky hills, Claudia and I finally returned to our room. It had been an awesome day, laidback, glorious, full of fun and chillness.

Oh, the horror that awaited...

As I was fiddling around in my bag, Claudia yelled for me to rush over to the bathroom. She didn't say why, she just sounded panicked, so I did... and a massive cockroach — at least the size of my thumb — came flying towards my face.

I ducked; Claudia jumped and shrieked and tittered a bit at my expression. I don't blame her. The panic in my eyes may have been not only visible, but damn near tangible. I hate bugs. I especially hate LARGE bugs that can FLY. They should be rounded up and shot, stamped, and burned to a crisp.

Standing back up, I slammed the bathroom door to trap the beast. "Kill it! Kill it!" Claudia shouted, which she had to do since I was screaming a bit like a schoolgirl myself.

Get it together, Ant, just kill the bastard, I thought. And I've killed before, mind you. A slightly smaller cockroach in Calcutta also met its ultimate fate beneath my Teva. This one was different though. The bathroom was bigger, so the battlefield was larger and we both had more room for maneuvering. And the Calcutta Cockroach did not fly. This physical aspect gave this insectile menace a distinct psychological and tactical advantage over me. I just had to hope the damn thing was too stupid to know that.

Suit up, I thought as I walked back towards my bag. I knew this could be a hand-to-hand battle, and the Tevas on my feet might not be enough. So I picked up my walking shoes, put them on my hands, took a deep breath and faced the door. "Shut it behind me," I said to Claudia (she didn't though; but who can blame her for wanting to watch?)

Inside, the winged demon roach sat in a corner of the wall. I focused my strength, breathed in deep, and struck out open-soled with my right hand. Splat. Game over. Ant 1, Roach 0. A bit anti-climactic I know, but there was no drawn-out battle. Roachie didn't move, I just nailed it as hard as I could. It was a bit like the anticipation leading up to a Mike Tyson boxing match; you get pumped and pumped and pumped... then BAM!, 90 seconds in and it's all over. Pay-per-blink-oh-damn-you-missed-it.

I grabbed some TP and scooped up the kill, wanting to make sure it was really dead. It looked dead: body a bit smooshed, head at an extremely awkward, unnatural angle on the body. Then its leg twitched. And moved in one direction... then another. Then another. Naw, stuff that; I chucked the roach down on the floor. "It's dead, Ant, it's dead, what are you doing?" Claudia said.

"It moved, dammit!" Stomp stomp stomp. "It's &#!#@ leg was moving!" Stomp stomp STOMP! I picked up the TP and saw what atom-thick cucaracha looks like. "Now it's dead," I said.

I dropped the demon into the toilet, so we could send it back to where it came — as a warning to any who might follow. "Claud?"

"Yeah Ant?"

"I need a beer."

"Me too."

We hate Kingfisher. We drank two, until the shock subsided and I stopped shaking.

I don't want to see anymore cockroaches. I just hope they don't want to see me, either. But if they do, they're mush. Bloody, squishy, mush. Got it, roaches?