i have vanquished a mammoth cockroach

It was late night in the kitchen, when I heard him knock on the door.

"Ma'am," he said, "I'm here because I'm a cockroach, and I'd like to terrorize you." He was easily six feet tall, and ugly. Really, really ugly. I mean, so ugly, even his mother probably didn't love him, and that's saying a lot because I've seen some pretty ugly babies coddled by their cooing, loved-crossed mamas.

"Well, come on in," I must have said, although I have absolutely no recollection of it.

When I turned the light on, he moved hastily, though dazedly, towards my stove. With no tool in hand with with to whack him, I made small talk with him, while I shuffled towards the wine rack, keeping a wary eye on him the whole time. Calling it a "wine rack," though, is kind of a euphemism because, really, it's where I store any and everything cylindrical. Like water bottles. And vodka bottles. And Lysol.

"What, um, so... how long have you been in the neighborhood?" I asked, lamely.

"My family's been here for eons," he said, wiggling his antennae at me disconcertingly, and searching my kitchen floor for a dropped morsel or twelve.

"Eons? Really?" I said, perhaps a little too fakely, as he picked up one of his six, hairy legs and made to pivot on it.

But I was faster than he was, and whipped out the Lysol and sprayed him right in the face.

The overwhelming scent of "Fresh" must have pissed him off, because he shoved me against the bookcase -- which is odd, since the bookcase is in the office, two rooms away -- and ran under the stove, which he lifted over his head with one leg.

"THAT. STUNG," he said, clearly miffed.

"Sorry!" I shouted, whined, and moaned all at the same time, while rapidly putting on shoes and searching for the sixteen year old can of Raid I thought for sure I had inherited when my roommate and I split five years ago. No dice. It was Lysol all the way tonight.

He stuck his head out from under the stove again, and this time he was wearing a U.S. Army-issued gas mask. "Fuck you!" he said, and blew past FloJo while sprinting to the fridge.

This wasn't happening to me. I mean, I'm no neat freak, but I do mop my floors.

"Hey!" he said from the safety of the fridge's underside, "Did you know there are some raisins under here?"

"Yeah," I said, chagrined. "I dropped a couple of grapes earlier in the summer. They tasty?"

"Not bad," he said, munching away. I stuck my head down to his level to see if he was nearby. As soon as I stood and backed away, though, he made his fatal error. He stuck his head out again to show me how light and fluffy the grapes-turned-raisins had become.

And I sprayed that fucker with all the Freshness I had.

He spun around in a circle and made a mad dash for the stove. But this time I was ready for him. I was wearing my clodhoppers.

BLAM!

My foot hit the floor and there was no roach underneath it.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

I slammed again, and this time, much to everyone's surprise, delight, and absolute utter horror, he was dead. With his guts hanging out.

And that was the gross part. He had guts. And they were hanging out. And that seemed so Not Right to me that I had to spray the whole affair with Lysol again, just to make sure that it was Fresh.

I'm not a paper towel user, as they're pretty unenvironmental, but there was no way I was going to use and wash a rag on this scumsucker, so I got a paper towel and prepped for the disposal. I was prepared to cover my tracks, and they'd never pin this one on me -- assuming anyone was missing this bastard in the first place.

But one paper towel just didn't seem enough. So I got another. You know, just in case.

And in one well-orchestrated move, the evidence was gone. The cops would never think to blame me. Because only the Freshness remained.

Oh, and this picture: