Nicholas Angel: I may not be a man of God, Reverend, but I know right and I know wrong and I have the good grace to know which is which.
Reverend Philip Shooter: Oh, fuck off, grasshopper. – Hot Fuzz
I was watching television, peacefully vegging out on my couch, when I heard it. A shrill, singular note that cut through the air like a knife, snapping me out of my calm.
At first, I thought it was my ceiling fan squeaking due to recent rain, giving me chills about a roof leak that I thought was fixed two years ago. But I decided to let nature call and revisit the noise shortly.
Little did I know what would come next.
As I powered down the TV, lights and ceiling fan, the noise remained, sharply piercing my ears. It was not the fan, but SOMETHING ELSE…
I turned on the lights and stalked into my bedroom, the noise growing louder and louder. Could I have left my bedroom fan on? Nope. And yet it persisted, louder and louder. I tracked it to the bathroom, turning on the light. The noise was coming from the shower. I opened the door, and to my relief, it stopped.
Satisfied, I walked out of the bathroom when a thought hit: Why would the shriek stop with the opening of a door? I did not feel a vibration which would suggest this. The eerie calm felt like there was something more.
Slowly, I crept up to the shower door, slowing opening it once more. I peeked my head in, and there it was:
My sworn enemy: the cricket.
Rage and fear flowed through my veins! Fight or flight, what would I DO?
The answer was simple: it was time to fight.
Donning my imaginary headband and gathering up every ounce of strength I had, I was on the attack. I used the available weapons at my disposal and was on the warpath. I turned on the shower, spraying water in that bastard’s direction, following it around the perimeter. He merely chuckled in a form that I could not perceive with my ears.
Enraged, my cheeks stung with embarrassment. Hovering over the cricket like an archangel preying upon the weak, I launched the next offensive: hurling empty plastic and aluminum bottles at THAT BEAST. The cricket merely laughed in its silent form of laughter, scuttling to the opposite side and came to a rest.
This would not do.
I was incensed. This fucker was going to go down.
The only way to get my wish was to bring him back to the sewers where he came from. I powerfully ran to the kitchen, finding a bucket and filling it with water. Standing over that HORRIFIC, multi-legged BEHEMOTH, I let the flowing water take its path. And it did: the cricket, that smelly archfiend of DEATH, was carried to the drain, pulled down by the water’s current, sinking into the abyss.
I had won.
But the victory was hollow. Being a thinking human, I pondered my own fate. What if I was subjected to such a shameful and cruel way to die?
Or… what if, its life spared, the cricket was still alive, planning its revenge?
I guess I will find out, one way or another.