The three amigos

There was a time when I much preferred the Periplaneta americana over the Blattella germanica. I now no longer have a preference - they're equally disgusting.

Over the past few weeks, I'd wake up in the middle of the night, go downstairs for some water, and be confronted by the three amigos - three two-inch-long cockroaches on the kitchen counter. They'd stop what they were doing as soon as I showed up, of course. You could see them pause, consider their options, glance slyly at each other. And then they'd scram. Stupid things are huge but nimble - they can get away via the tiniest crack in just about anything.

And you just knew that they had a pre-arranged meeting time for the next night, an hour or so after the humans went to bed. Chattin' it up, climbing all over everything, pooping and laughing. You see, our cockroaches are as big as field mice. And they poop a lot like field mice. Everywhere.

Also, they can fly.

Luther did eventually get them, one by one, but they have cousins. Lots and lots of stupid cousins who yes, live outside, but insist upon venturing into indoor territory upon occasion, just to make trouble.

Last night, Luther got up for a bit and went to the den to play on his computer. I was pretty restless too, so I got myself a soda (aka pop) and sat down in the dark in the office, with just the glow of my computer screen. So I'm sitting there, with my hands on the keyboard, and in the blue light... I see movement to my left. Damn gigantic cockroach has come scurrying up beside my arm to the edge of my desk and is LOOKING AT ME. Hmm. Whatcha doin? Wanna play?

I jump up and turn on the overhead light - and he is gone. No sign of him.

A while later, I go and say goodnight to Luther, and I come back upstairs and go to the bedroom and lie down. I decide to leave my light on just a little. I put my head on my pillow. And the damn cockroach crests the hill of the little pile of clothing on my bedstands. And stops. And looks at me.

I jump up and throw a clothing item across the room. I turn on the overhead light. And the bastard is gone. No sign of him, at least not until he suddenly appears on the other side of the bed.

Half an hour later, all the overhead lights are on, all the bedclothes have been torn off, there're magazines and lamps and clothing and books strewn across the floor and down the hall, the clothes hamper has been tossed down the stairs, and I'm standing beside it in my underwear with a flyswatter in one hand and a pillow case in the other, roaring in rage because the damn thing refuses to be caught and killed.

Luther is a better hunter-killer than I. He got the thing. But that crazy fellow got the last laugh. This morning I sat down once again at my computer, and I started to type... AND THERE WERE POOPS ON MY KEYBOARD.

ARRRRGH!