How to kill a scorpion
It's just after dawn and you're sitting down to a cup of coffee and breakfast sausages. Your daughter, hands sticky with maple syrup from her microwave waffle, has to go wash her hands and go pee. She leaves the door open and is telling you about how she needs more toilet paper. Everything is normal, until she screams, piercingly. Everything is normal, until it isn't.
Begin to shake slightly. You won't recall getting off your stool or going into the bathroom. This isn't a tiny-spider scream, is it. She's still screaming. Fuck. It's right there on the wall by her head. Big fucker. Well, big for a sand scorpion. About two inches long not counting the stupid stinger tail, which is curled placidly around it right now.
Grab her arm and firmly pull her out of the bathroom, her underwear and pajama bottoms still pooled at her ankles. Tell her to pull them up. Yes I know you didn't have time to wipe. Fuck. It hasn't moved. It's okay honey, you're safe. Mommy will get it. Fuck. Mommy I thought it was dirt. It's not dirt honey.
Shake your hands a bit, loose at the wrists, to get out that staticky feeling of panic. Fuck, you need a shoe. Briefly look at your own shoes. No fucking way are you taking your shoe off to kill this motherfucker.
Fuck. Okay. Find a shoe. It has to be the right kind of shoe. Wieldable. Not lightweight. Few treads, no sneakers. No boots. Okay. Kirk's biking shoe will do, it's got a kind of converse sole.
Your daughter is still crying in the hall. Five seconds have passed since her piercing scream. Stand in the doorway wielding your chosen shoe. Tell mommy to be brave, honey. Be brave, brave. Okay. Fuck. What if it moves first. What if it doesn't die on the first strike.
One. Two. Three. Go. The sound of the shoe hitting the wall. The scorpion falls from the wall next to the toilet. Fuck. Its little stinger tail is still flexing weakly. Smash the fucker again, twice. He's truly dead now. I did it, Penny! Is he dead mommy? Oh yes. Three times dead.
Check the shoe sole, oh gross. Wipe it off with a tissue. Toss the shoe back into the hall. Get more tissue to wipe the guts and legs and the rest of it off the floor. Flush it all. Flush it again, just to be sure, fuck the drought. Murder is serious. Fuck.
Okay. We're okay now. You're okay sweetie. Let's just sit down and calm down, remember about the baby who's been watching this spectacle quite placidly from her highchair. Try not to look at everything brown with intense suspicion. You sure as fuck don't want that breakfast sausage now. You're so itchy. Fuck. The shakes calm down a bit. Google more about poison. Arson. Relocation companies. It's okay. We're okay now. Happy Thursday.
Begin to shake slightly. You won't recall getting off your stool or going into the bathroom. This isn't a tiny-spider scream, is it. She's still screaming. Fuck. It's right there on the wall by her head. Big fucker. Well, big for a sand scorpion. About two inches long not counting the stupid stinger tail, which is curled placidly around it right now.
Grab her arm and firmly pull her out of the bathroom, her underwear and pajama bottoms still pooled at her ankles. Tell her to pull them up. Yes I know you didn't have time to wipe. Fuck. It hasn't moved. It's okay honey, you're safe. Mommy will get it. Fuck. Mommy I thought it was dirt. It's not dirt honey.
Shake your hands a bit, loose at the wrists, to get out that staticky feeling of panic. Fuck, you need a shoe. Briefly look at your own shoes. No fucking way are you taking your shoe off to kill this motherfucker.
Fuck. Okay. Find a shoe. It has to be the right kind of shoe. Wieldable. Not lightweight. Few treads, no sneakers. No boots. Okay. Kirk's biking shoe will do, it's got a kind of converse sole.
Your daughter is still crying in the hall. Five seconds have passed since her piercing scream. Stand in the doorway wielding your chosen shoe. Tell mommy to be brave, honey. Be brave, brave. Okay. Fuck. What if it moves first. What if it doesn't die on the first strike.
One. Two. Three. Go. The sound of the shoe hitting the wall. The scorpion falls from the wall next to the toilet. Fuck. Its little stinger tail is still flexing weakly. Smash the fucker again, twice. He's truly dead now. I did it, Penny! Is he dead mommy? Oh yes. Three times dead.
Check the shoe sole, oh gross. Wipe it off with a tissue. Toss the shoe back into the hall. Get more tissue to wipe the guts and legs and the rest of it off the floor. Flush it all. Flush it again, just to be sure, fuck the drought. Murder is serious. Fuck.
Okay. We're okay now. You're okay sweetie. Let's just sit down and calm down, remember about the baby who's been watching this spectacle quite placidly from her highchair. Try not to look at everything brown with intense suspicion. You sure as fuck don't want that breakfast sausage now. You're so itchy. Fuck. The shakes calm down a bit. Google more about poison. Arson. Relocation companies. It's okay. We're okay now. Happy Thursday.