You swarming poison-laden motherfuckers from hell. You disgusting, brainless, purpose-lacking pieces of dried up piss that should all be separated from your 6 legs one by one and then thrown into a vat of pure Raid. But, before you die from the chemicals, while you’re still twitching from your failing nervous system, you should be thrust into an incinerator to burn into dust. Then you should be spread over the world’s oceans so you can be covered in the shit of fish, whales, and seagulls for all eternity. Apologies to the fish, whales and seagulls that must allow their crap to touch these abhorrent, flesh-eating bastards.
I come home after visiting with friends, brush my teeth, undress, turn the light off and climb into bed. I feel a stinging on my arm. “What the hell?” I say…and turn on the light.
There is a nest of red fire ants on my bed. On my pillow. On the very place where I fall asleep, a place where I am at my most vulnerable. Anything can happen to me when I’m dead to the world. I take reasonable precautions to make sure nothing can harm me: I lock my door and windows, my smoke detector is on, my birds act as an alarm, and so on.
You invade this security, and you do so with utmost speed. You weren’t there last night. You weren’t there this morning. No, in less than a day, you converge on the place where I dream of nightmares such as you.
After leaping out of bed to stare dumbfounded at this swarm while frantically brushing the dozen ants who have attached themselves to my right arm, shoulder, side and back, I feel an all-too-familiar stinging sensation on my feet. I don’t even need to look down, I don’t want to see any more.
Yes, they are on the floor. On my clothes. On my pillow. On the bed. Under my bed. HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?
I call my apartments emergency maintenance number, near tears and hyperventilating. Their response? "Yeah, it’s a problem we’ve been having. The pest control comes around once a month. The ants weren’t here last night, you say? Gee! I can’t spray - the pest control guys have to do that on Monday. Yeah, I know you can’t sleep tonight because there are ants all over your bedroom. What do you want us to do about it? We know it’s called an emergency number, but that’s for things like water leaks and loss of heat. Call the office tomorrow, maybe they can send someone out then. Oh, the office is closed? I guess it’s Monday then. "
I cannot express the sheer despair I feel. The rage. The jitters. Every time my hair brushes my shoulder, I freak out. Everytime I see a dot out of the corner of my eye, I gasp.
I have to sleep on my couch tonight. ‘Sleep’ ha! I have to lay awake tonight and hope that they don’t decide to attack the rest of my apartment. Even though I doused the bedroom with an entire can of Raid, ruining several books, my brand-new down comforter, and possibly my bedside table, I have no assurance that more won’t come from whatever pathway they are traveling from Dante’s seventh circle of hell.
I pit you, shitass-fucking, crab infested whore loving heaps of bile-inducing scum ants.
