Serial Killer 2020

They were everywhere. They had large black bodies and exoskeletons that crunched if you stepped on one. The children were disgusted. "They are everywhere!" Tanya had shrieked. "Can't we do something about them?" Robert complained. I had grown tired of bickering with the family over watermelon juice that slowly dripped onto the floor, the pink lemonade powder that had spilled into the corner and had somehow gotten tracked all the way across the kitchen floor, out onto the covered back porch. I was disgusted myself. "We need an exterminator!" I had finally yelled in response. The husband, ever calm, ever cool and collected, after researching on the internet, had intervened.

"They are carpenter ants," he'd said. "They live on the trees that abut the house. Our options are to get rid of the trees, hire an exterminator to drill and bomb the perimeter, or . . . try this home remedy."

"How much for the exterminator?" I wanted to know.

He told me. "Call him," I said, without hesitation.

But a week passed. The exterminator had not called back. We were to have guests over, and each time I opened a kitchen cabinet, each time I slipped into the little powder room off the kitchen to wash my hands, they were there, crawling, leaving a trail of ant pheromones behind them. This apparently was a chemical that called to others to join the party. I could just imagine the little chemical messages. "Delicious! Someone cut a ripe mango over here!" "Anyone want some peanut butter? It's on this knife that's just sitting on the counter top."

This was how I got my first thirst for blood.

They say that the lust for death is sometimes preceded by a desire to purge. Such was the case with me. I did something radical, something almost unheard of in my house. I removed all chairs from the kitchen, and I scrubbed. It started with the countertops. I scrubbed with the energy of a scorned woman. I scrubbed the stovetop, cabinets, handles, even the sticky nether regions of the floor that had only been brushed by soft wet mop fibers once in a blue moon. And it felt good.

Where surfaces had been sticky, they were now smooth and clear. No more was my sponge hung up on a clear mass of -- what was it, jelly? Jell-O? Egg white? The kitchen smelled clinical, like Clorox, like a clean laboratory.

For just a moment, I felt a pang of conscience. Was I creating a superbug by having a kitchen so sterile? Should I have used the organic cleanser? The pungent smell of chemical clean was strong. I suddenly felt strong, too.

What kind of a woman uses organic cleanser? I asked myself. The kind that can't put her foot down, I told myself. The kind who is controlled by peanut-buttery knives on countertops, the kind that has no power, I told myself. This is the new me. Clorox and antiseptic everywhere. I smiled to myself. I was beginning to enjoy this.

The next step was to create the toxicant. If Mr. Exterminator refused to come, then I would have to take matters into my own hands. I scoured the internet for solutions until finding the top-rated elixir. It was a mix of--well, I'd tell you, but I fear that it might, uh, change you. Suffice it to say that I had all household ingredients handy, and, with the dear departed dog having gone to the big farm in heaven, and only teenagers in the house now, I was safe to leave the elixir at floor level, in one of the four olive oil dipping dishes that we had been given by some well-meaning friend.

Moo-hahaha! They were the perfect size for the elixir.

The internet said that the taste of this elixir was so palatable to the ants, that they couldn't help themselves. They left their trail of pheromones, calling the others to join them. The poison then destroyed a necessary enzyme in their digestive system, shredding their insides and offing them cleanly, efficienty, effectively.

I was skeptical. We had been sweeping ants outside, crunching them under our feet for weeks now. The exterminator would have been at least a few hundred dollars, and we couldn't even get a call back. Could this simple elixir make a dent into our infestation?

In a word: yes.

I had put out the pietri/olive oil dishes out at noon, by four o'clock there were several dead ants lying in the clear liquid at the bottom of the dish. "Well, look at that," my husband said. "We got some."

I felt a surge of satisfaction. I was winning the battle. Those little buggers had gotten the best of me for so long. They thought they could control me, I smiled smugly. "Look who has the upper hand now," I thought to myself.

By five o'clock, a strange thing had happened. There was a long, dark line extending from the sliding glass door into the pietri dish. Interesting, I reflected. I hadn't realized that we had a gap that was allowing the ants to enter the house. The long black line was a parade of ants, all of whom were apparently drawn to the elixir. They marched into the dish and crawled out again, wanting to trace their steps back to their home. They never made it, however. On the way were ant carcasses littering the floor. In spite of this, the others kept coming.

"Look at this!" I called out. The children came running. "The ants! I've got them now!"

Tanya looked at me. "You are a little too excited about this."

Robert rolled his eyes. "Can I buy a video game?"

My husband appeared. "Great, hon, looks like we are making some progress."

The next day I refreshed the dishes. The ants had suffered a great loss in number. At least 75 had died as a result of the kitchen pietri dish. "Terrific!" I thought. I think I can get more with fresh dishes and fresher elixir.

I set out four dishes that day. One in the spot in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, one hidden under the fridge, and one on the back porch.

"Why do you need to catch ants that are outside?" Tanya asked.

"Because they are horrible creatures that deserve to die," I smiled.

The weeks progressed. The record number of ants I'd caught so far was 150. Yes, I had counted. Those little bastards were mine now. I knew how to get them. It was so simple. I'd even perfected my ratio of serum. The problem was, my numbers were dropping. I informed the husband.

"Well. sweetie, that means you accomplished your goal," my husband said, reasonably.

But it wasn't the same.

Truth be told, I felt less accomplished at the end of the day with only two ants in the pietri dish.

"I declare our ant problem solved," the husband said triumphantly at dinner one night. "What's wrong?" he asked upon seeing my face fall.

"Nothing," I said, which is what I say when something is very clearly wrong.

"Sweetheart, let's talk after---yyyyyiiaaaaa!!" he said.

We had been interrupted by a loud buzzing.

A long black body whizzed past the husband's nose.

A large wasp had flown into the kitchen from outside.

"No problem!" I said, suddendly buoyed. I felt a surge of electricity. I was alive. I had a purpose. My smile returned.

"Let me handle this."