The carcass was on the floor. Amongst the chipped paint, dust, dirty clothes, and boxes it sat. Then, as he spied above, another one, on the ceiling. Hanging there. Plotting. Waiting for the right time.

He couldn’t shut his eyes. The old man kept staring at the ceiling. Then, he felt it. Something crawling into his ear. He grabbed the small insect with his hand and threw it across the small room. He was sure there were more; hiding, like Pol Pot. It was a battle. No treaties would be signed.

All furniture and clothes were removed from the room. Bombs would be set off. A 24 hour raid. No compromise. He shut the door and let the fumes do their job.

And then, the old man came back to witness the death of the bugs. They lay on his carpet, belly up. Hundreds of them killed. And he thought, The genius of that.

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