And the day goes in rodent elimination tactics; not a kill, FYI, since kills make one a murderer and also a lesser man - there's nothing swell in cornering and pulping a creature with confused eyes till the last breath. You plan good in alternate ways, laying out no traps but a cookie trail, and finally when it walks out in the open on the trail, you fright it into flight with a trekking pole - best alternate use of this device. A girly scream also rends the air, but luckily there's nobody else to notice that.
The day dons a red tint with passing - the red of ants, and the red of the stings that bloom all over the stomach and hands. So it happens that when the queen of ants decides to take a flight, she finds the sleeve of your tee to take refuse, and then her troop of soldiers follow her trail to clamor all over your body; those nihilists then gracefully bite all over, as if that rat had paid them to, and force you to quit your science of sleep and the dal chawal to take a frantic bath.
Sting sting sting
They make me sing
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