The Assassin

I’m the official roach killer at my house. Thank you, I wear the badge proudly. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a roach infested house. But about once every 6 months, I’ll be minding my own business and I’ll hear a scream, (the wife.) I’m very familiar with the roach scream, it starts with a high shrill and then gets a few octaves higher before my name is shouted throughout the house. The rainy season usually brings the first roach sighting and it’s June and we live in Florida so my bride is due for a close encounter of the flying cockroach kind.

My actions are swift and severe… I spot the invader, and then casually and coolly walk over and grab a shoe. Sometimes I whistle on my way back to the trespasser and act like I don’t see him, then WACK! Goodbye Mr. Roach, and if he’s German, I’ll say something like, “Say hello to Hitler” as he’s flushed down and into the catacombs of the sewer.

I have a talent at this and my roach killing skills are never called into question. I walk where others fear to tread. If there was a Hall of Fame for roach killers, I’d be Tiger Woods. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m known in the roach community as the assassin. Maybe that’s why we don’t have a big roach problem at our house, word gets around.

“Hey, George didn’t come home last night,” one roach said.

“You didn’t hear,” the other roach said. “Ron the assassin sent him to a watery grave.”

“No, not the assassins house, what was George thinking?”

If by chance the assassin is not home, things become more torturous for Mr. Roach. Where I slap a shoe a close range, my wife takes a more defensive approach at the roach. From about twenty paces she sprays a whole can of roach spray at the scurrying insect. Why does she use one whole can? Because she didn’t have two cans to use.

The poor fella shakes, twitches, rolls around, and coughs. It’s not a pretty sight. If I happen to come home during this death march, I can almost sense his relief that the assassin is here to finish him off.

It’s a bond among rivals that a woman with a can of spray will never understand, it’s the thrill of the chase, him trying to get under the fridge, before I spot him and grab a shoe. Weapons of mass destruction eliminate the mano-a-roacho contest that has been fought throughout the ages.

Being highly trained at this does have its advantages. I know how gladiators felt in Roman times or a sheriff in the old west after he ran the “black hats” out of Dodge.

Yes sir, after I flush the victim and give the “All clear” sign. My wife and son run up to me, and just like a scene from an old western, we walk arm and arm into the sunset… It’s good to be king.

Okay, I wanted to see if I could write 500 words on killing a roach. And I did, 525.