The Cockroach

[Warning: the following post contains graphic, stylistically-enhanced depictions of human-on-cockroach violence.
Disclaimer: A much shorter version of the following story originally appeared in the comments section of someone else's blog, but I'll be damned if I can remember whose. I, of course, was the author of said comment.]

Miyazaki has some pretty big cockroaches. I'm talking 2-3 inches long, and mean-looking; sleek, shiny, with these big spike-like things on their legs. I want to say "samurai cockroaches", but the way they sneak up on you makes them more like "ninja cockroaches". Ninja-samurai cockroaches.

I hate them. It wouldn't be unreasonable to say that I have an irrational hatred of cockroaches, particularly the Miyazaki variety. The first time I saw one, it was dead, and stuck to the inside of a "roach motel". It was fucking huge, and it was at that very moment I knew that the world was not big enough to contain the both of us.

Our condo is on the fourth floor of a building that's only 5 or 6 years old. It's a very clean, modern building and, so far as I know, nobody has any problems with cockroaches. During rainy season in June and July, however, motherfuckin'-big cockroaches will sometimes crawl up the walls of our building to hang out on the balcony. Only the "best and strongest" make it up to my place.

One night a couple of years ago I went out onto the balcony for a smoke. My wife was at work and my daughter was sleeping. I had no sooner lit my smoke when I noticed what must surely have been the "King of the Cockroaches" sitting on the balcony ledge just a few inches from the ashtray.

Now, these bastards are fast, so it's necessary to move quickly. Unfortunately, this fucker had taken me by surprise. I had to improvise (actually, he was close enough to grab with my hand, but...). A quick scan of the balcony's contents presented a pair of sandals, either one of which would do the job I needed to do nicely. With one fluid motion my right hand swooped down, picked up a sandal, raised it up, and smashed the ledge where the cockroach was sitting. I lifted up the sandal to inspect the sole.

Nothing. The bastard had escaped. I was furious. No, I was enraged. A quick scan of the balcony turned up no cockroaches. I wasn't finished, though. My senses were on fire and, inspired, I leaned out over the balcony and inspected the walls of our building. There he was! On the wall of the building about 4 or 5 feet from the edge of my balcony ledge!

I quickly jumped up onto the ledge of the balcony, sandal in hand, and worked my way to the edge. It would be a bit tricky, but I calculated that, if I could maintain my grip on the edge of the balcony wall with my left hand, and smash the wall (where the cockroach was) with the sandal in my right hand, I could kill the bastard.

He was a bit farther out than I had originally calculated. I was literally hanging by my fingertips when I smashed the sandal in my hand against the wall. The sandal rebounded almost instantly, and my adversary, seemingly suspended, clung for a moment to the building. A moment later, with a slow, almost graceful arc, he fell to the ground four stories below.

I, clinging to the side of the building like Spiderman, let out a howl of triumph. At that very moment my wife pulled into the driveway and, glancing up. saw me hanging off the building, sandal raised triumphantly, and shouting fuck-knows-what...

She thinks I'm crazy. They all think I'm crazy. But I killed the fucker...