Eggar's Pest Control
Idol Mini-Season 2024
Prompt 7: hikikomori
August 26, 2024
“Hikikomori” is a Japanese word meaning total withdrawal from society and seeking extreme degrees of social isolation and confinement. From Wikipedia.
EGGAR’S PEST CONTROL
“I love the busy season,” thought Dave Eggar, owner of Eggar’s Pest Control, while driving to the home of Ron and Sally Allen, some potential new clients.
Dave could get rid of the usual cockroaches and termites, but he specialized in basement dwellers, cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers (C.H.U.D.), and other troublesome creatures. He had the only Class A license in the area.
The other pest controllers only had Class B licenses, which just covered the insect world. A Class A license also included more humanoid monster types.
He had just finished clearing out a C.H.U.D. infestation in the city’s sewers. His tool of choice was a flamethrower. Some thought it was overkill, but he loved using it and it eliminated the disposal problem. Properly used, a flamethrower left only ashes, and any competent chimney sweep could take care of those.
“A flamethrower probably won’t work with the Allens’ problem,” he sighed wistfully.
It was a long trip to the Allens’ home, but Dave didn’t mind. He was driving the company truck, a vintage Ford P-800, and he loved it. It was a large step van with plenty of room for a large containment unit in back and a very comfortable cab with a decent stereo. The van was painted eye-searing red with “Eggar’s Pest Control” written on the side in large neon orange letters above the company’s motto, “What’s Bugging You?” It had a large plastic statue of a very dead cockroach firmly bolted to the roof. When Dave’s son was little, it had made him cry.
According to the work sheet, Mrs. Allen was a pharmacist and Mr. Allen was a teacher. They had a son, Liam, age 19, and a daughter, Emma, 14. They owned one dog and two cats, all flea-free. Their house was over fifty years old, but had been renovated a few years ago and there were no problems with roaches or termites.
The problem was with Liam.
When Dave arrived, he saw the Allens’ house, a single-story white ranch-style building with a large front lawn and a well-kept garden thankfully missing any garden gnomes.
He had once had to get rid a rowdy gnome colony and it had not been pretty. Dave had followed strict trap-and-release protocols, but the gnomes had kept escaping.
“Too damn smart,” Dave had thought, “and too noisy.”
When he had finally hauled them away to the gnome sanctuary, they had had a party in the rear containment unit. They had kept demanding that he play disco hits and criticized him for the lack of a mirror ball, although they had appreciated the quality of his sound system.
Once word had spread in the gnome community that he had purchased Abba’s Greatest Hits, installed a mirror ball, and served Finnish beer, gnomes had started calling him to surrender. They had called his old Ford the “juhlabussi.” [1] He had drawn the line at serving lutefisk. [2]
“It stinks too much,” Dave had explained to one group of persistent gnomes interested in renting his van for a party.
Dave parked in front of the Allens’ house, grabbed some of his brochures, and headed up the walkway. Before he reached the door, Mr. Allen opened it.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were a nice middle-aged couple living in a nice middle-aged home with too much beige. Emma was in her bedroom retreat and Liam was in the basement.
They sat at the kitchen table, which was partially occupied by one of the cats.
“It’s Liam,” said Mrs. Allen. “He’s a gamer. He lives in the basement and we can’t get rid of him.”
“I understand,” said Dave, who really did understand. He had a son who had flirted with the gaming lifestyle, but had gotten himself together and was now studying computer science at the university. It had been a very close call.
Mrs. Allen took Dave to the basement and opened the door, where he was greeted by a sharp rancid smell. The basement was dark, except for the glow of several computer monitors. Liam had an elaborate system of computers and gaming stations. It resembled a James Bond villain’s take-over-the-world set up. Dave was impressed, until he saw Liam, sitting in a replica of Captain Kirk’s chair. A light saber was on the floor.
Liam himself was a scrawny, unwashed gamer, with long hair, a wispy beard, and acne. He wore a Lord of the Rings T-Shirt (“You shall not pass!”) and clearly, he had not bathed in a long, long time. The floor was littered with empty cans of Mountain Dew and moldy pizza boxes. His fingertips were stained radioactive orange from binging on “cheddar” cheese balls. He did not realize that anyone had entered the basement. All his attention was on the multiple screens where he was playing several games at once.
“Die, you sonofabitch, die,” Liam yelled at one of the screens. “I own you!”
They went back to the kitchen. Mr. Allen was embarrassed by what he knew Dave had seen.
“You called me just in time,” Dave said. “He’s almost completely devolved. According to the new Gamer Relief Act, he no longer classifies as human.”
The Allens were near tears. They loved their son, but what was in their basement was no longer their little boy.
“You have a number of options,” Dave began. “Some more expensive than others. I contract with a number of gamer rehab facilities, some residential, others not. One program is located in the wilds of Utah, another is military based. Frankly, they all have mixed results with a high percentage of relapse. It’s difficult for gamers as far gone as Liam to recover. They have to want to be helped, and Liam clearly doesn’t.”
“We don’t have the money for that kind of treatment,” Mr. Allen said. “Isn’t there something less expensive?”
“There’s always the flamethrower,” Dave said. “And I know an excellent chimney sweep who can handle the clean-up.”
The Allens looked shocked.
“You should have Liam checked by a specialist, but it’s pretty clear that Liam has completely devolved. Under the Act, he’s no longer human. He’s more like a C.H.U.D, but less monstrous. He isn’t going to eat anybody, but he’s going to get worse until he can only grunt and eat snacks. Since Liam isn’t human, the flame thrower is quick, easy, and cheap. You’ll need to get the basement fixed up again, but you could turn it into a laundry room or an entertainment room.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Allen perked up when they heard this.
“But, he’s our son!” Mr. Allen said. “We love him.”
“He stopped being your son a long time ago,” Dave said gently. “Look, you don’t have to make up your minds right now. There’re some good parent support groups out there. I’ll get you the info. Also, here are some brochures from some of the rehab facilities. Maybe your health insurance can cover it, plus there’re some government grants available to help people like you.”
“Just in case we go with the flamethrower,” asked Mr. Allen, “do you know any good contractors? We’ve always wanted a wet bar.”
“And a movie room,” added Mrs. Allen.
“Look, talk it over, then give me a call,” Dave said as he gave them the brochures. “The flamethrower doesn’t make you bad parents. You’re just being realistic.”
The Allens looked a little better. Dave had a knack for this kind of meeting - no judgement, just facts, and a lot of compassion. It was a very soft sell. After all, he had nearly been in their shoes. He knew what he would have done and it wasn’t the flamethrower.
They shook hands and Dave returned to the van. He knew he’d hear from them soon.
But now he had another job.
A group of lawn jockeys had been talking to some garden gnomes. They were interested in renting the van for a mobile Kentucky Derby Party and they wanted to talk about food and music.
“It might be time to install a big screen tv back there,” Dave thought.
After that he had to fumigate a house with termites.
It was a very busy season for Eggar’s Pest Control, and life was good.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Disco-loving C.H.U.D.
Lawn Gnome Infestation
[1] Finnish for “party bus.”
[2] For those not familiar with lutefisk, it is a dried whitefish cured in lye. It is made from air-dried whitefish and turns gelatinous after being rehydrated for days prior to eating. Wikipedia. It is from Finland and other places. It is inedible. Who eats fish that have been left out in the sun, cured with lye, and turned into a thick goo?
Prompt 7: hikikomori
August 26, 2024
“Hikikomori” is a Japanese word meaning total withdrawal from society and seeking extreme degrees of social isolation and confinement. From Wikipedia.
EGGAR’S PEST CONTROL
“I love the busy season,” thought Dave Eggar, owner of Eggar’s Pest Control, while driving to the home of Ron and Sally Allen, some potential new clients.
Dave could get rid of the usual cockroaches and termites, but he specialized in basement dwellers, cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers (C.H.U.D.), and other troublesome creatures. He had the only Class A license in the area.
The other pest controllers only had Class B licenses, which just covered the insect world. A Class A license also included more humanoid monster types.
He had just finished clearing out a C.H.U.D. infestation in the city’s sewers. His tool of choice was a flamethrower. Some thought it was overkill, but he loved using it and it eliminated the disposal problem. Properly used, a flamethrower left only ashes, and any competent chimney sweep could take care of those.
“A flamethrower probably won’t work with the Allens’ problem,” he sighed wistfully.
It was a long trip to the Allens’ home, but Dave didn’t mind. He was driving the company truck, a vintage Ford P-800, and he loved it. It was a large step van with plenty of room for a large containment unit in back and a very comfortable cab with a decent stereo. The van was painted eye-searing red with “Eggar’s Pest Control” written on the side in large neon orange letters above the company’s motto, “What’s Bugging You?” It had a large plastic statue of a very dead cockroach firmly bolted to the roof. When Dave’s son was little, it had made him cry.
According to the work sheet, Mrs. Allen was a pharmacist and Mr. Allen was a teacher. They had a son, Liam, age 19, and a daughter, Emma, 14. They owned one dog and two cats, all flea-free. Their house was over fifty years old, but had been renovated a few years ago and there were no problems with roaches or termites.
The problem was with Liam.
When Dave arrived, he saw the Allens’ house, a single-story white ranch-style building with a large front lawn and a well-kept garden thankfully missing any garden gnomes.
He had once had to get rid a rowdy gnome colony and it had not been pretty. Dave had followed strict trap-and-release protocols, but the gnomes had kept escaping.
“Too damn smart,” Dave had thought, “and too noisy.”
When he had finally hauled them away to the gnome sanctuary, they had had a party in the rear containment unit. They had kept demanding that he play disco hits and criticized him for the lack of a mirror ball, although they had appreciated the quality of his sound system.
Once word had spread in the gnome community that he had purchased Abba’s Greatest Hits, installed a mirror ball, and served Finnish beer, gnomes had started calling him to surrender. They had called his old Ford the “juhlabussi.” [1] He had drawn the line at serving lutefisk. [2]
“It stinks too much,” Dave had explained to one group of persistent gnomes interested in renting his van for a party.
Dave parked in front of the Allens’ house, grabbed some of his brochures, and headed up the walkway. Before he reached the door, Mr. Allen opened it.
Mr. and Mrs. Allen were a nice middle-aged couple living in a nice middle-aged home with too much beige. Emma was in her bedroom retreat and Liam was in the basement.
They sat at the kitchen table, which was partially occupied by one of the cats.
“It’s Liam,” said Mrs. Allen. “He’s a gamer. He lives in the basement and we can’t get rid of him.”
“I understand,” said Dave, who really did understand. He had a son who had flirted with the gaming lifestyle, but had gotten himself together and was now studying computer science at the university. It had been a very close call.
Mrs. Allen took Dave to the basement and opened the door, where he was greeted by a sharp rancid smell. The basement was dark, except for the glow of several computer monitors. Liam had an elaborate system of computers and gaming stations. It resembled a James Bond villain’s take-over-the-world set up. Dave was impressed, until he saw Liam, sitting in a replica of Captain Kirk’s chair. A light saber was on the floor.
Liam himself was a scrawny, unwashed gamer, with long hair, a wispy beard, and acne. He wore a Lord of the Rings T-Shirt (“You shall not pass!”) and clearly, he had not bathed in a long, long time. The floor was littered with empty cans of Mountain Dew and moldy pizza boxes. His fingertips were stained radioactive orange from binging on “cheddar” cheese balls. He did not realize that anyone had entered the basement. All his attention was on the multiple screens where he was playing several games at once.
“Die, you sonofabitch, die,” Liam yelled at one of the screens. “I own you!”
They went back to the kitchen. Mr. Allen was embarrassed by what he knew Dave had seen.
“You called me just in time,” Dave said. “He’s almost completely devolved. According to the new Gamer Relief Act, he no longer classifies as human.”
The Allens were near tears. They loved their son, but what was in their basement was no longer their little boy.
“You have a number of options,” Dave began. “Some more expensive than others. I contract with a number of gamer rehab facilities, some residential, others not. One program is located in the wilds of Utah, another is military based. Frankly, they all have mixed results with a high percentage of relapse. It’s difficult for gamers as far gone as Liam to recover. They have to want to be helped, and Liam clearly doesn’t.”
“We don’t have the money for that kind of treatment,” Mr. Allen said. “Isn’t there something less expensive?”
“There’s always the flamethrower,” Dave said. “And I know an excellent chimney sweep who can handle the clean-up.”
The Allens looked shocked.
“You should have Liam checked by a specialist, but it’s pretty clear that Liam has completely devolved. Under the Act, he’s no longer human. He’s more like a C.H.U.D, but less monstrous. He isn’t going to eat anybody, but he’s going to get worse until he can only grunt and eat snacks. Since Liam isn’t human, the flame thrower is quick, easy, and cheap. You’ll need to get the basement fixed up again, but you could turn it into a laundry room or an entertainment room.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Allen perked up when they heard this.
“But, he’s our son!” Mr. Allen said. “We love him.”
“He stopped being your son a long time ago,” Dave said gently. “Look, you don’t have to make up your minds right now. There’re some good parent support groups out there. I’ll get you the info. Also, here are some brochures from some of the rehab facilities. Maybe your health insurance can cover it, plus there’re some government grants available to help people like you.”
“Just in case we go with the flamethrower,” asked Mr. Allen, “do you know any good contractors? We’ve always wanted a wet bar.”
“And a movie room,” added Mrs. Allen.
“Look, talk it over, then give me a call,” Dave said as he gave them the brochures. “The flamethrower doesn’t make you bad parents. You’re just being realistic.”
The Allens looked a little better. Dave had a knack for this kind of meeting - no judgement, just facts, and a lot of compassion. It was a very soft sell. After all, he had nearly been in their shoes. He knew what he would have done and it wasn’t the flamethrower.
They shook hands and Dave returned to the van. He knew he’d hear from them soon.
But now he had another job.
A group of lawn jockeys had been talking to some garden gnomes. They were interested in renting the van for a mobile Kentucky Derby Party and they wanted to talk about food and music.
“It might be time to install a big screen tv back there,” Dave thought.
After that he had to fumigate a house with termites.
It was a very busy season for Eggar’s Pest Control, and life was good.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Disco-loving C.H.U.D.
Lawn Gnome Infestation
[1] Finnish for “party bus.”
[2] For those not familiar with lutefisk, it is a dried whitefish cured in lye. It is made from air-dried whitefish and turns gelatinous after being rehydrated for days prior to eating. Wikipedia. It is from Finland and other places. It is inedible. Who eats fish that have been left out in the sun, cured with lye, and turned into a thick goo?