More Fucking Scorpions

More Fucking Scorpions

 

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They had sent numerous scouts in recent days and none had returned alive, maybe this time when their golden boy didn’t come back they might finally get the message. We must have had 5 kills in half as many days. You have to be careful with these bastards, they terrify for sport. Their weapon of choice: the night raid. I never go to the kitchen or bathroom without proper eyewear and absolutely never in the dark. Well. Honor compels me to admit the scorpions are not responsible for the glasses, I actually can’t get out of bed without them. Lately, something’s been making the scorpions bolder, they’ve been sighted in increasing numbers. Even after sun-up. Even on the fucking wall.

This morning, the dumb bastard must have fallen into my makeup bag and taken a nap between the eye shadow and the blush. In my pre-caffienated fog I almost stuck my hand in. That may even have been its plan all along. Instead, my finger barely lifted the lid before I changed course, turning to grab the toothbrush. It was then that the hideous thing jumped onto the counter with a plop as if  I had startled it. A plop. Scorpions don’t make noise. Pardon me for disturbing you, you arrogant son of a scorpion.

An impotent shriek is the first reaction. The jack hammer still goes off in my rib-cage, but now, I act. I don’t go running for reinforcements like before. In part because there aren’t any, necessity breeds courage. I grab the heaviest thing within reach – an old Vaseline jar in the medicine cabinet seemingly preserved for just this moment. I drop it on the interloper’s ugly body. But for some reason I hesitate. I could tell as the jar descended that I hadn’t put enough weight into it and my blow would only wound.

When with extreme caution I lifted the jar, mangled torso and tail flopped separately in a sad phantom dance. A second involuntary scream escaped me but we both knew it was doomed. There can be only one. Legs shaking, fueled by righteous adrenaline, I drew back my arm and went in for the kill, this time twisting viciously, grinding any possibility of life from its gelatinous remains.

I recall now that I had brushed aside an odd feeling before the thing died. Perhaps I had made a mistake. Maybe this one, apart from his evil kind, was just a fellow traveler trying to move on his way. Maybe that’s why I missed the first time – perhaps it was his consciousness I had felt, asking me in his quiet way not to kill him, that he came in peace. Did I just incur a terrible karmic penalty? Should I cremate his crumbs? Do I have to pray for this thing? Do I? What am I saying.

 

There can be only one.

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