Update Sunday 06/03:
Melody, a braver and more conscientious woman than I, disposed of the roach when she came in for the night shift. She is a beautiful African-American mistress with a huge, forceful personality. She is funny, too. She has another job with involves persuading people to buy things.
“How long has that roach been there?” she asked, ten seconds after walking in the door.
“I don’t know. Not long!” I lied. “Sorry I didn’t pick it up. I’m scared of roaches!” Not a lie.
She got a paper towel out of the bathroom. “It’s dead? You sure? It’s not going to move if I touch it, is it?”
“Nope! It’s good and dead. Been like that since I saw it!”
She picked it up and was even good enough to dispose of it in the outside dumpster and not into the toilet or the nearest trash bin, which is where I would have put it if my cowardly self had been forced to do the deed.
Three cheers for you, Melody!
* * * *
New York residents should be advised that a monstrous new breed of hideous mutant cockroach is loose in the city.
Not an hour ago, I rolled into the Studio, lunch salad in one hand and laptop case in the other, ready to spend a lucrative afternoon alternately blogging, editing papers, and entertaining wackadoodles. I turned on the lights in the lounge and what did I see crawling around but A HUMONGOUS HIDEOUS MONSTER OF A COCKROACH!!!
I am not bullshitting you, gentle reader, when I say that this fucking thing was two inches long WITH WINGS. I’m telling you, it really was. I have never seen one this big outside of the South. It was bigger than that bastard who occupied my dust buster for a month last fall.
I immediately dropped my laptop bag, squealed like a piglet, and backed right out the door.
Miss Margo required assistance.
I went to the Manager’s station. I asked her if she could deal with bugs.
She looked up from her computer screen. “What kind?”
“There is a huge cockroach in the lounge. Huge.”
Nope. She couldn’t deal. “I hate those things! I heard there were a few upstairs the other–“
“No! Don’t tell me, please! I don’t need the visual! Don’t wanna know!”
I went back to the lounge and peeked through the crack in the door. I was hoping maybe the Alien Cockroach Mothership had beamed the fucking thing back up to outer space where it came from, but noooooooo, it was still there!
I asked another girl in the other locker room. She laughed at me.
“Is there a man around? Anyone?” I asked the manager. We could make a sub kill the bug!
No men around. Not a single Y chromosome in the house.
I stood in the parlor for ten minutes wondering how I was going to resolve this situation. I couldn’t come up with anything except maybe spray it with bleach from across the room (not that that worked last time) or solicit a stranger from off the street for cockroach-killing assistance. Pardon me, sir, would you mind stomping a roach for us?
Finally Molly arrived. I explained our predicament. Or I should say, my predicament, because Molly was not paralyzed with loathing and disgust. Nope! She tossed back her long blonde hair, strode into the lounge, and stomped that roach with her big romper stomper boot before my and the manager’s very eyes.
“I ain’t cleaning it up, but it’s done!” our heroine announced, and went to the bathroom to apply her makeup.
Fantastic. The worst is over. But the eternal question remains: how to dispose of the body?
The manager wasn’t going to touch it. And I couldn’t just leave it there. Not where I could see it.
I fetched a broom, intentionally blurred my vision so that I couldn’t see the details of its hideous body, and cautiously approached with the broom fully extended in front of me.
The manager watched from behind (this was NOT Frau Farbissina, by the way. Frau Farbissina would have either told me to kill it or be terminated from employment–“Some Domme you are, yes? Yes, scary Domme!”–or else she would have killed it herself, picked it up, and thrown it into my hair).
“I hope Molly really killed it!” said the manager. “Sometimes if you don’t really crush them, they come back!”
I pushed the broom closer and closer to the disgusting roach. When the bristles almost touched it, the manager screamed: “Arrrgh! It moved!”
I shrieked and dropped the broom and retreated.
Then I peeked through the crack in the door.
That damn roach hadn’t moved! It was laying right where Molly stomped it!
I turned on the manager, furious. “YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE!”
“No I didn’t! I didn’t! I thought I saw it move!”
Scary Dommes, right? Big bad scary sadists!
I went back in, picked up the broom, and did something I’m not very proud of…here it is, the Awful Truth: I pushed that roach, at the end of the broom, over by a locker in the corner.
I can just barely see the tip of its body out of my peripheral vision. Even in death, it terrorizes me.
I planned to write about my date with Spencer first thing this morning, but it was either write about the terrorizing cockroach, or drink scotch. My sobriety must come first, I think we can all agree!
More later, once I am calm again.
If you would like to come here and dispose of the cockroach’s body, please email me: email@example.com.
If you are a bug scientist, you can come get this creature to aid you in your research.
Update Sunday 06/03: