Soapboxes Too Small To Stand On: 08/09

It is early afternoon. It is light outside but it is still dark in the apartment. I have ventured away from the trappings of Metroid long enough only for coffee and Burger King. I toy with the idea of exercise, but I am lured back to find the last two Power Bomb tanks in Chozodia. They are as elusive as they are desirable.

The coffee began its short life several hours ago, when it was first brewed in one of the many large tanks at Orchard Variety and left there and not replaced. I purchased a cup, by rough estimate, somewhere between two and three hours after it could have been considered "stale" by those accustomed to the office coffee pot, or -- better yet! -- a home coffee maker that has not been retired to the scrap heap due to being infested by roaches. On the short drive home, the coffee makes its way down my esophagus, through my intestines, the caffeine sorted out and delivered via jolt to my brain, the rest doomed to my bladder where it will soon need to be released. This is where the coffee's tale ends, and mine begins.

I callously and optimistically proceed through my doorway and into my bathroom. Prepared for launch, the coffee quickly frees itself from its bodily prison and disappears into the lukewarm embrace of the sea below.

While this transaction occurs, an abnormally loud buzzing sound jolts my ear. I turn to face a creature of unparalleled size for this location and climate. Its wingspan is inimitable. It's double-barreled torso is several times the size of that of its peers. Its stinger looks like a gilded arrow, aimed straight for my heart. It glowers at me.

"You are going to die, Dan Sullivan."

Caught offguard, I stumble backward. I clench the mysterious muscle that controls urine flow. I back away through the doorway. The hornet takes up perch in its new domain, above my shower. It owns my bathroom now, it tells me with its piercing gaze; its hollow black eyes showing resolve but not a hint of fear. Unable to face down such a creature with my senses not about me, I cede this moment to it. I recognize his tactical offensive as well-prepared.

I decide that my newfound enemy has won himself a temporary reprieve. I prop open the door to my porch. I allow him the opportunity to escape, to relay the tale to his hornet friends, of how he, the mighty King of All Hornets, stared into the face of his human oppressor and did not show fear. He should be allowed this much. It is only fair. The promise of the open world, I offer him. A world of casual foraging. Care-free nest building. The luxurious lifestyle afforded by taking care of the brood.

I return to the living room and to my quest for the final two Power Bomb tanks. One is in a room I can see through a hole in the floor, but cannot access for seemingly tedious reasons. I explore every adjacent room on the map, but alas, there are no access points. I fucking hate it when they do this. I can hear my Nintendo laughing.

Suddenly, the dreaded feeling. The unfortunate side-effects of the coffee and a cigarette have now activated the other half of the waste-disposal alliance: the colon. It must also relieve itself of the weight it carries. I flee to the bathroom, in one of those sudden rushes of panic when the need to shit hits you like the proverbial ton of bricks. I scan the room to see if my nemesis has accepted my generous compromise. He has not. Perched in the top far corner of the room, puffing out his wings for battle, he waits. He waits for my return, to bury his stinger into my flesh. He is not content to stare down the enemy. He has charted his domain. He is going to stay here. It is his now.

I fall back to the cabinet. No hornet spray. Only roach. I gloss over the label. Do not spray into open air. Fuck. I take stock of the remaining tools in my arsenal. A rolled up magazine? Powerful, but only at short range. All it takes is one miss, and the game is over. Dustpan and brush? Useless. And what of the fabled insect-hunter's weapon of choice -- the broom? Mine is not the sturdiest. It is cheap plastic. Its bristles are light and weak, not the veritable spears attached to the older wooden ones, designed for outdoor use. But it will have to do.

I ready myself at the entrance to the bathroom. I steady my hand. The monster stares down at me. I will only get once chance at this. For if I only wound him, he will flee out of my reach. If I lose sight of him, I might not be able to find him without exposing myself. That would be far too risky. For a moment, I lose my nerve. But my bowels groan, renewing in me a sense of urgency. I release my battle cry, a guttural howl that surely sweeps for miles. I strike. My nemesis is pinned down beneath the bristles. I twist the javelin in my hands, hoping the bristles will tear through his weak exoskeleton and destroy his will. I hold it for a moment. I cannot see beneath the base of the broom. Have I prevailed? Will I reclaim my throne, so to speak?

I let the broom down. The hornet is still alive. He spirals in flight but is still airborne. I swat at him, now at a disadvantage. The broom is not fast or solid enough to bring him down in mid-air. He comes at me. I duck, and roll into the adjacent kitchen. I hit my head on the cabinet. I groan. Round two has been lost as well. My enemy is much smarter than I thought.

I sit back and nurse my wound. I plan my strategy. I am out of options. I am fighting a nimble and agile foe in an enclosed space with very little maneuverability for a human. He has every advantage at his disposal. I pick up the phone, and call the one man I know to be my superior in insect-hunting. A man I have always known to take to the call of battle and slay any spindly wicked creature that dare enter his domain and threaten his ilk: My dad.

My mother answers. How am I doing, did I call the insurance company? Pay my credit card bill? Apply for that job she found in the classifieds? No on all fronts. I need to talk to the insect-hunter, I say. I am in need of his tutelage. She groans. "Ned!" I hear her yell into the ether. "Your son needs your sage wisdom."

He comes on the line. "You have a bee in your bathroom?"

Not a bee, I say. A hornet. And this thing is serious.

"Do you have a magazine? Just roll it up and whack him with it" -- I can practically hear him gesticulating the exact motion he would use over the phone -- "BAM! Like that."

I explain to him the tactile impossibility of such a weapon in this situation. He has seen my bathroom, I tell him. It is not a battleground suited for short-range combat. I would be stung for certain.

"It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it," he sighs.

I am not afraid of anything, I assure him. I am a proud insect hunter of the Sullivan tradition. This is not a bee, it is a fucking hornet, the largest of the eusocial wasps, reaching up to 2.2 inches in length. This one appears to be even larger than that. Perhaps it is even a North American potter wasp. I hear those things decimate.

"Well, do you have a bee-keeper's suit?" he asks.

I sense his sarcasm. The sensei has decided to let the pupil learn for himself. I tell him I'll figure it out and hang up.

Back to business. I summon up the courage. I recognize that I may be stung in this battle, but that it has gone on long enough. And I really have to go to the bathroom. If I don't survive this, at least I will have died at the hands of a worthy adversary. I lower my head in defiance, and charge into the bathroom.

All is quiet. I squat down low to avoid aerial attacks. I survey the scene. Check the upper echelons of the bathroom. Nothing. I survey the walls. I check behind the shade. The shower curtain. The door. He is gone. Perhaps he has fled. Leaving the door open and the porch door propped, I cautiously pull my pants down, and hover above the toilet, clenching my rolled up magazine tight in my hand, ready for a quick strike. My bowels heave a weary sigh, and deposit their load. My enemy has not shown his face. It appears he has retreated, satisfied with the bravery displayed in battle.

The hours go by, and I go about my day. I forget all about the hornet, and the climactic battle fought earlier. I watch a movie. I make a few phone calls. I learn how to play a song. My exhilarating combat experience has given me a new, productive lease on life. I decide to retire, and first to shower.

Under the shower head, I comb my fingers through my hair, and reflect on the day's events. I think of the worthy adversary I faced mere hours earlier. He is probably miles from here by now. Living the good life. Preying on yellow-jackets. Not a care in the world. I wonder what has become of my --

--HOLY SHIT! There he is. Out of nowhere, in a fury. He rears his head and his wings are flapping at full-on speed. He has been biding his time in the nether regions of my bathroom, recovering from my broom-laden assault, waiting for his chance to strike. He knew I'd be too foolish to assume he'd stayed. He hid where he knew I'd never find him. And now it is time for me to die.

I leap out of the shower. Water covers the floor. I slip, but quickly regain my footing. Naked and vulnerable, I lurch through the door to the wall. And there it is -- my Excalibur. My sword in the stone. The Swiffer. Why did I not think of it before? I pull the slip-on mop cover off, revealing the flat, rock-solid surface, pivoting on its sturdy aluminum handle.

I turn in fluid motion. Time slows down to accommodate this epic moment. The battle has shifted into half-time. My reflexes are heightened. The bee steadies itself just above the shower. The water still running from the shower head. A combination of soap, water, and sweat drip from my naked figure. Unrestricted by clothes, I am no longer civilized man. I am primal beast, defending my home from marauding invaders. I am a savage killer, weened on scraps of the rotting flesh of my enemies.

He prepares for his charge. His wings rear up to propel him forth, but I beat him to it. The Swiffer comes down on him like the hammer of Thor; like the fist of judgment; like the hand of God -- smiting my mortal enemy with all His fiery wrath and damning him to the eternal pile of the corpses of my nemeses. The hornet caves in upon itself. Its entrails explode from its body, staining the Swiffer with a pinkish spray of insides. Its limp body falls from the air, into the waiting sea below him. He lands on the floor of the bathtub. As the current sweeps him away and down the drain, he manages one last final stare up at me, as if to say, in the most utterly astonished way an insect can express itself: How?

I hoist my Swiffer into the air in triumph. The battle has been won, but at what cost? I ponder this as I hold the weapon under the shower head and wipe away the carnage from its brunt. I return it to its sheath on the wall, and wipe away the wreckage from the battle off the floor, so as not to let it drip through the tiles.

I am Dan Sullivan, I roar. INSECT HUNTER.

And then there is peace.

Also, quote of the day, for those who know him:

"I hope the weather is good, and try to tell some Bemis stories."
-Bemis, on my upcoming trip to Los Angeles.

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