It’s 5 AM, and I’m peacefully snoring in bed, hell-bent for sleeping until hell, at least 9 or 10. Luxury. Suddenly, I’m jolted out of slumber by a searing pain in my right middle toe. I mean like white-hot sewing needle through the phalange pain.
“Gah!,” I scream profoundly. I’m suddenly standing beside my bed without any memory of going from a horizontal to a vertical orientation. I’m simply lying down one instant and hopping up and down, throwing back the covers the next.
As the covers fly back, I see a smallish black object soar directly toward my face. I react with all the well-considered aplomb you’d expect from a naked guy jolted out of bed at 5 AM by someone stabbing him in the foot with a hot icepick.
That is to say, I squealed like a 5-year-old and made lots of largely ineffectual flailing motions with my hands and feet. By sheer luck, I ended up stomping the little demon into oblivion.
Centipede. ICK. Only about an inch and a half long, but god, what a wallop. The pain had by this time spread through three toes, and the original injured one had a small, angry red bump on it. For the next two hours, I sat with my offended foot in cold water to keep down the throbbing pain.
So much for sleeping late. Stupid centipede.