Dear Creepy Fucks,
This letter is to all of you, but also only one of you.
Allow me to explain.
As you have probably noticed, the bug situation here has gotten out of control. Really. Centipedes, beetles, spiders. And you guys are not pulling your part.
I don’t know how you got to my grandma and convinced her that a spider that shows up in the shower is good luck, but I’m not falling for it.
This letter isn’t about what you’re doing wrong, though. This is about a rare opportunity.
I am formally requesting that one spider step forward on all eight creepfest legs to be officially hired on as an exterminator. I don’t care who, but you should be strong, big, and ready to kill. Your function will be the killing of all bugs that come in the apartment. I will ask that you kill indiscriminately, a gorgeous butterfly being just as dead as the shiniest beetle. However, roly polys are off the hit list. You will not question me on this issue.
What do you get out of this deal? Well, you are now the soul predator in an environment filled with bugs. Sort of like being the only one who was smart enough to wear pants wit an elastic band to Country Buffet.
Failure will not be tolerated. Any insects you miss are mine, and I will eat them in front of you to teach you a lesson. Know that I don’t want to do this, hate it, and do it only to punish you.
If you are successful, you are free to live in my apartment. There are, however, some rules.
You will live primarily in the oven. I will release you during the day when I’m at work, and when I come home you will crawl back in the oven. That way, if you fuck up, all I have to do is fucking roast your ass.
You are not to have any babies. If, after a period of getting acquainted, you prove to me that you can be responsible, we can discuss the possibility of you have ONE baby. Not a hundred million tiny babies that run around on your ass all day and horrify the fuck out of me. ONE.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, This deal is shit. I’m surviving on my own, so why be someone’s bitch?
That’s a bad question. I don’t like how you’re thinking.
For one thing, know that although I really hate your appearance and presence, there’s not much you can do beyond freaking me out a little. I can crush you. I can burn you, I can put you in a jar and bury you in salt crystals like a mini avalanche. You could die, and die horribly. And die horribly you shall.
Secondly, maybe you won’t take me up on my offer. But maybe one of the others will. And all of a sudden you find yourself prey for a spider, once your equal, now with access to equipment and supplies you could never dream of. You ever faced down a spider with needles taped to its legs? No? Well, if you don’t want to, maybe you better consider jumping on this offer.
Best,
Pete