Funny, the things that bug her I

“Kill it!”

Mom was scrunched up in one corner of the elevator, trying to compact herself into as small a space as possible. For a moment, I thought she was going to supernova or something. Yes, it was no small thing when mom encountered one of them. As a matter of fact, it was usually a rather large production, complete with singing (screeching), and dancing (clawing for higher ground) and a cast of thousands (all of the sundry folk in the surrounding area suddenly appearing to rubberneck at what must have been the scene of a murder, rape or flogging).

“I got it ma, c’mon cool out!”

Her hands were in front of her face, shielding her from all sensory input other than sound.

To satisfy some primal 14-year-old genetic programming, I picked up the now mangled beastie, with it’s innards all artfully spread on it’s out-erds, and asked her “Is this what you were all freaked out about?” whilst waggling the offending ex-bug in front of her. She had pulled her hands down and away from her face just in time to catch the dead-bug-ballet. I knew that I was a walking dead man now, but it was worth it. I’m pretty sure that she was due for a panty swap-out at this point.

Mom’s a tough old witch, but the one thing she cannot abide was now dripping it’s sqooshed guts down the side of my fingers.

Water Bugs.

Think of a cockroach’s mutant big brother, only bigger and messier and noisier when they get crunched.