The Curious Incident of the Mosquito in the Night-Time

Like most freedom-loving people, I sleep. Not an inordinate amount, mind you, but enough to let myself function without looking like a zombie on his way to stroke number five.

Last night, I was trying to accomplish just this, when about 2 in the morning, I was woken by a high-pitched "eeeeeeeeeeeee," dancing about my ear. I tried to ignore it and roll over but this needle-nosed denizen of the night persisted, reminding me with it's wee banshee's call that it was busy chugging my blood, blood located specifically near my eardrums.

Every time I was on the brink, the very cusp, of getting back to recharge mode, it's anti-sleep system kicked in and sent it directly back to my ear. I pleaded with her to stop, but she knew no mercy. Our conversation unfolded about like this:

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee." (mosquito)
"Please, please, for the love of God, leave me alone." (Colin)
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
"Eeeeeeeeeee yourself you blood-sucking bastard child."
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

It was a bit like negotiating with North Korea or an Alabaman.

For an hour and a half I let this dance of doomed sleep go unchecked. About 3:00 in the morning, I had enough.
I threw on the light and let my myopic eyes adjust to the harsh glare. I searched with a ferocity unusal for this time of the morning before I found the night harpy resting it's bloated insect form on the book near my head.

My eyes focused on its tiny evil form, lazing about contentedly after having super-sized its recent order of O+.

My name is Brutal Revenge.

Slowly, painstakingly, I moved my hand closer in, practically shaking with anger and anticipation. Easy now, Colin, don't blow this.

Then, with the speed of a meth-whacked bobcat, I struck the book with my palm and hoped for the best. As I drew my hand away, I saw that the cover of my yellow hardback was smeared with blood, my hard-earned blood, and its little, fragile body was crushed into tiny bits all over my hand.

In a savage act of victory, I smeared my blood about the front of the book, taking great delight in drowning the remaining pieces of my offender in my own red juice. Psychologists of war may call these sick forms of celebration "combat stress reactions" and "war crimes, but I didn't give a damn about the consequences. The moment was mine and I could finally get some rest after a vicious night campaign and wanton bloodshed.

I checked the clock (3:30) shut off the light, rolled over and allowed my self a moment of satisfaction before shutting my eyes. Sweet Morpheus, god of sleep, cradle me in your arms.

And then, like a bad kung-fu flick where the antagonists attack one at a time:

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Apparently my victim had friends, powerful, whining, blood-sucking friends. I couldn't let this happen. Not tonight, not on my watch.

I vowed to crush these guerrilla mosquito forces and their Tet-like offensives into my inner sanctuary. It was time to show these bastards who wears the boxers in this apartment. Let's get it on.

And I wont say that I lost, I wont say that I rose two hours earlier than is my norm, I wont say I'm on my second cup of coffee before sunrise, all I'll say is that I really, really enjoy working on my computer at 5 a.m.

Bastards.