July 8, 2014 15 Comments
Author’s Note: Comment moderation is turned back off as while we remain dead to the city, we are yet now alive to the web.
Town living has awakened in me a bloodlust for bugs that is neither slaked by time, nor lessened by distance. Legions of flies have been crumpled by my deceptively light and cheery glamdring , and legions more writhe upon pasted strips. In the evening and under the eaves, with a lance of poisoned liquid I smote down two wasps’ nests ruins upon the ground.
At the second engagement, one foolhardy wasp dared to meet me in single combat. Blinded by rage and Spectracide Wasp and Hornet Killer, he charged me. So fierce was his flight and so great his confidence that he foreswore his own lance and we literally went head to head. Piercing my windmilling arms of defense, he slipped under the bill of my Boston Red Sox helm, and rammed himself face first into my forehead. Upon impact, I let loose the warmaiden’s cry and pummeled myself in the face; dislodging both my headgear and my pride in the process.
But that bug is deader’n a doorknob now.