Invasion

After living in a basement apartment in SE Idaho for three years, I'm accustomed to the habits and evil of hobos (the spider, not the homeless person).

I've been attacked in the shower, whilst covered in soap and unable to defend myself. While lying in bed from a suicidal hobo on a mission. While in a seated, compromising position (it's hard to scrabble away screaming when your pants are around your ankles). They've come out of drawers, shampoo bottles, boxes of toiletries, and from underneath my sink. They're evil.

I thought I was safe by moving to Reno, out of hobo territory yet still far enough north to avoid the more terrifying desert bugs.

I was wrong.

Horribly, horribly wrong.


Two weeks ago, I walked into my room and saw a gigantic fuzzy blob lurking near the window. Radiating malevolence. I ran to get my glasses to see what the hell it was. It remained fuzzy. I should have known all that was about to befall at this point, but alas, I am only human. I called Dan into the room to get his opinion. He started shrieking. I started shrieking.

It was not my proudest moment.

You see, I am conditioned to fight eight legged things. I see a giant fuzzy blob, I see eight legs, I leap into action with the hobo killing book. I'm good at it. The hobos and I had an understanding. This had . . . rather more than eight legs. Plethora is a good word to describe the horror.

Dan ran for the first weapon he could find, which happened to be a hiking boot. This was a poor choice. You see, when you're confronted with the very face of Satan on Earth, you want a wide flat surface with plenty of crushing power. Not a surface layered with crevices that the vital portions of the centipede can hide in. Dan dealt the fiend a mighty blow that would have destroyed the most stalwart of hobos. I was yelling encouragement along the lines of "Oh, oh GOD, WHY IS THAT IN MY HOUSE."

The centipede got stuck in the crevice.

Then the hell monster was forced out of the crevice on the upswing. (damn you physics, you betray me yet again)

Enter five minutes of shrieking and running around until we spotted it on the windowsill. Dan slammed the window down, and we thought we were safe.

It took a stiff drink for me to have the courage to open the window and take this picture.

Until the centipede's family came back for revenge.

The kitchen, two nights later: Centipede runs from under the dishwasher, up Dan's leg, then back under the oven. Mocking our helplessness in the face of its unholy terror. The day after that: Dan is perched on the floor playing video games. He starts flailing and jumps up - to have a centipede fall from his shorts.


I am losing my mind. Two weeks of leaping up every time I feel the slightest brush on a leg or arm to do a full body patdown. Two weeks of poking potential hiding places with my sword before picking them up. Two weeks of giving every structure in a room the stare when I walk in. You know the one - left over from our days spent slightly lower on the food chain. The one where you seek out any possible threat while poised to run.

My plan of keeping all doors and windows closed seems to have been working. I haven't seen one for a few days now. But I know they're there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Plotting.