Mr Cartwheel

Last night, I caught him again. The Monster Cartwheeling Spider that has plagued my living room... the last time, I released him in to the alley only to discover that he found his way back in.

This thing was the size of a tangerine, with legs longer than Daryl Hannahs. I had to use a pint glass to catch him the first time, as I feared anything else would not suffice. The width of a standard glass would have made him legless... Mr Cartwheel was a pint kinda guy, for sure.

Last night, he just sat there, looking at me. "Honey! I'm home!" So I grabed a glass (slightly narrower rim, but he wasn't moving, he was daring me to catch him again). Glass on top, Sky letter underneath. Got him.

And I sat there, watching him watch me from his glass prison, his legs pushing at the clear walls, fighting for his freedom...

I've no fear of squatting a mosquito, hoovering up small spiders, laying ant powder... but when things get a little bigger, something clicks inside that says, "wait! This one has a conscience,  a life!" I wouldn't purposefully kill a baby rabbit - though they do pop when being driven over. And Mr Cartwheel was BIG.

I could almost see the expression on his face. And that's what steeled my nerves. It wasn't a baby rabbit with a twitchy nose, it wasn't cute and innocent. It was EVIL. Pincers jabbing at the glass, long legs reaching the top of his prison (the bottom of the glass) as he tried in vain to push himself free. He was Jack Torrence, and if I didn't do something final with him, he'd come back and bounce tennis balls against the wall to annoy me.

Or he might even come back with an axe.

I had to act, but I also had to be sure. WD40 is an insect killer, but the thought of lifting one end of the glass to spray him didn't sit good with me. Even with the little red staw, I was sure that the tiniest crack in his prison would be enough for him to get his legs under, lift the glass and attack.

I could flush him down the loo, but what if he climbed back out? Squishing him underfoot was an option, but his armour plated body would probably feel like stepping on a stone.

I returned to the toilet idea, but took a break for a smoke while I hatched my plan. All the time, Mr Cartwheel watched me, dared me to defeat him.

WD40 around toilet bowl so he couldn't climb back out... flush... bleach... rinse and repeat.

Plan sorted, I had confidence. I could win this war. I WOULD win this war.

Bowl sprayed with insect killing lubricant, I went back to retrieve him, half expecting him to have vanished, to see a tipped up glass and a note on the Sky envelope saying, "Ha! Nice try, Missus! I'll see you tonight while you're sleeping!" But he was there, defiantly sitting front and centre, pincers still but primed.

I carried him gingerly, knowing any sudden movement could scupper the plan. I held him over the toilet bowl, showed him my plan, and I sware his expression was of cocky confidence. As if meer water would be his end?!

A quick jerk of the glass and in he fell, landing with a small splash. He opened up his legs, touching either side of the bowl, relaxing on his back, pincers slowly opening and closing. It was now or never. I pushed down on the lever, and Niagra Falls opened up above him, driving him down the U bend and away. The saftey lid on the bleach had me panic. I should have known to open it in advance. And I sware there was a leg clinging on, long enough for Mr Cartwheel to pull himself back, climb back out... Fear had me in its throws, but then the lid came free, and half a bottle of thick bleach slid down after him. The leg lost its grip, and I flushed again.

Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat....

Cleaning House

I am a murderer. I have killed twenty three people over the last thirty three years. I have no pattern. No design. No type.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.

What if doing the wrong thing feels right? How does it work when doing wrong is the right thing to do? When my work helps others, comforts them, saves them? How is it wrong then?

It all started when I killed my father. I pushed him over the bannister in the house and he died when he hit the stairs. His neck, left hip and the thumb on his left hand were shattered when he came in to contact with the old solid wood. He had just stabbed my mother twice in the stomach and I knew he'd come after me next. So I pushed him. He didn't know how to fall.

I was nine.

At twenty two, I was on the freeway when I heard the DJ on the radio station talking about a car full of bank robbers being chased on my road. They were behind me and coming up fast. They'd shot dead three people in the bank that they'd just raided. So when I saw their car in my rear view, I reacted. I swerved into them, made hard contact and their car spun uncontrollably until it flipped. Two of the four died at the scene, one more in hospital three hours later, and the last in the electric chair 16 years later.

Then there was the known paedophile who I caught attacking a child in the bushes in my local park. I heard the kid's scream and just reacted. I punched him hard, and when he hit the ground, his head hit a rock. It was lights out for him.

After the sixth, I realised that I'd caused the death of all of these criminals, and had gotten away with each murder. Even the local paper heralded me as some sort of freaky hero. 'The guy to be around when you're getting mugged' they said.

Maybe that's when I believed I was invincible. The law hadn't touched me. Well, they had, but only to shake my hand and give me a pat on the back. They loved me.

Now I hunt for them. The murderers, rapists, child molesters, bank robbers, thieves... I've clocked up thirty three in total. Nine that the authorities know about. I've learnt that they don't spend the time investigating the death of a drug pusher, they have bigger fish to fry. Maybe I should make myself a super hero costume. Purple always suited me. My mother always said that it made my blue eyes sparkle.

I have a taste for it now. And the low life of the world don't attract interest. If I had murdered the Governor's daughter, I'd be on the FBI's most wanted list. Instead, I'm cleaning house. Clearing out the cockroaches. Making good of what is bad.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.