War On Bugs July 27
Tiny mosquitos are waiting along the trim of my front door. They smartly form a line in the slender shadow of the courtyard light, in hiding. They are somehow expecting me. The Darwinian imperative has selected these happy few for the task. If I open the door without forethought, the in-draft simply will sweep the buggers into my room for the night. Clever girls. This will not do. They shall not steal my precious bodily fluids tonight. I brush them into oblivion with a quick karate chop and enter to face my next foes.
Despite recent disinfections of my room, with the aid of a bottle of Cloro bleach and Pina Sol, large ants with abdomens like glass orbs keep coming. The Trekkie within reminds them that resistance is futile, as I round each of them up for closer examination. They are beautiful creatures, with shimmering black mandibles and bloated bellies like christmas snow-globes. After brief admiration of these wonders of nature, I pound each of them with extreme prejudice. Then I scan the latest from the web.Breaking News From Mexico News Daily:
“The man believed to have been the head of a Cancún cell of one of Mexico’s biggest drug cartels was ordered yesterday to stand trial after his capture on Saturday.
“Joshua Loyo Peña, known as El Lobo, is suspected to have directed the January attack on the state Attorney General’s office in Cancún in which four people, including a police officer, were killed. He is also believed to be the Jalisco New Generation Cartel’s chief in Quintana Roo and one of the chief generators of violence in the state, but operating principally in Cancún and its hotel zone, ordering executions and extortion and managing the drug trade. Loyo Peña is credited with at least 30 executions in recent years.
“He was found after several houses in Cancún were searched by federal security forces and arrested along with six other presumed cartel members.“
Que Pedo? I thought they caught El Lobo months ago. How did he get out of jail last time? Oh, wait, don’t tell me.
A cockroach as long as my pinky races across the darkened path. I contemplate subliming iodine from seaweed to combine with concentrated ammonia to make Nitrogen Triiodide, a contact explosive which leaves an Oz-like purple cloud in its wake. Instead, I squash the beast with my Converse Allstar. Now that goddamned cucaracha is as long as my fully extended middle finger.
Get the point? I really have a zero-tolerance for insect invaders in or near my personal space. The only exception would be the miniature sugar ants, which are ubiquitous and virtually unstoppable. Geckoes are the natural solution, and they are busy making their loud kissing sounds all over the walls of the courtyard, but I cannot lure them into my place to deal with the pest problem. It might be the Pine Sol, which is admittedly an acquired taste.
Meanwhile, at La Sirena, in front of a small horrified audience, Tigre, the squat mestizo gentleman from native Valladolid, places one live black scorpion in his pasta and, with a fork and spritz of lemon, swallows the beast, but not before grinding it three times with his teeth to incapacitate the stinger.
I know that scorpions do not technically qualify as bugs. But still, these are the casualties of an unending war.