My wife hears the weed man outside spraying the lawn. The next day it’s the pest control guy doing the foundation.
He doesn’t come into the house to spray each room anymore. Just doing the outside is enough to keep the bugs away, says the pamphlet he leaves at the top of the steps.
My wife comes from the grocery store and immediately complains about the smell.
She gives me the long receipt for the thirteen bags of freshly ground and harvested death that will feeds us for the next few weeks.
I look it over, go into my office, shut the door. I file it away. Next, I pay the quarterly bills for those who do my killing.
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