Call Me Ishmael

I hate to obsess about the scorpion thing. But it's Friday night, 5 days after I first saw the poisonous bug. I've looked for him every night in the garage, the laundry room, the hallway... but alas, he has evaded the deadly snap of my flip flop.

So it's 11:00 p.m. and I'm reading The Last Wife of Henry VIII (I'm drawn to all things English since I crossed the pond last spring) when something catches my eye. I glance up and there he is. Three feet away from me on the tile. My white whale.

Would someone explain to me why he is scurrying full speed ahead in a diagonal line across the family room headed straight for me? With all the places to hide and explore, why is he aiming for me? It's not my imagination, I was definitely in his sights.

So mustering all of my strength, I stand and take a step closer to make sure it's the guy from the other night. I remove my stylish black flip flop with the silver charms and move in for the kill. Just as I do, he freezes. Oh, like I won't see him. Then, with just a little too much force, WHAM, I smash that little *&#$^. He actually split in two pieces.

Hmmm, who's scared now?

I must admit my eyes never left the carcass as I grabbed the paper towel to unceremoniously dispose of him. No autopsy needed. Unnatural causes. Justifiable homicide.