The initial skirmishes had died down. There had been a relative, uneasy peace that had been ongoing for the past two months between the two sides. I had adopted a live and let live policy for the most part, with the unsaid agreement being that they would not encroach too much. After all, the place was more than enough for the three of us.

But then, two became three. And three became four. And four became a dozen. And suddenly, it felt as if they were taking advantage of my inherent niceness. What had gone unsaid had been spat in the mud and crapped upon. The underlying tension between us was ratcheting up!

But I let them be. After all, I just had a few more months left. But then, a line was crossed. It might be a very fine line, but crossed it was. My food is mine, and none others!

So I escalated the warfare. I signalled my intent to re-engage hostilities. A few died by my hand. But they proved resistant as well. They started advancing their troops to my dishes, my food and my microwave. I retaliated of course, but they proved hardy. They survived a full minute and a half at maximum blast of my microwave.

I knew then and there that this would not end well. Both sides had dug in, and were refusing to budge. Me because I was paying for the bloody space. They because they were comfortable, had nice dark places and crap loads of places to hide and procreate. But little did I knew how bad the fallout would be.

Pictured Above: Them Damn Roaches!

A day before a full scale attack, I gave them one last chance. I cleared out my kitchen, removing everything from every shelf and drawer. It was my hope that it would indicate to the miniature roaches of the reckoning that was coming. It turned out to be an eerie premonition of what would be…

But they paid no heed. It was if they couldn’t believe I would go that far. They believed I was just posturing, that there was no bite to my bark. How little they knew…

And thus, two days passed, and the roaches rejoiced. They felt they had won the battle, but they did not realize the war was still left. I decided enough was enough. I was done playing the nice guy. I had decided.

If I couldn’t have the kitchen, then I would make damn sure that they couldn’t either.

In a move worthy of the great King Pyrrhus who suffered great casualties in defeating the Romans, I decided to order a tactical nuclear strike. Or something just as devastating. Complete and utter pest control.

The pest control guys came, and hosed and dosed my entire kitchen with a white spray. The fumes were obnoxious, but I could not help laugh manically as I could see the roaches floating down the river of white death. But as the spraying came to an end, I couldn’t help but look upon my devastated kitchen.

Afterwards: The Devastated Kitchen

It looked like a war zone. A war zone that had just suffered a nuclear attack, and all that was left was the nuclear fallout. I could almost see a tumbleweed blowing through my kitchen.

The Ghost-kitchen after the attack

As I stared, I wondered about the bloods of thousands (okay, maybe not thousands but 10′s?) of roaches that stained my hands. I had not killed them personally, but it was my hand that triggered the call. But then, as I ruminated over the devastation, I had a sinking feeling. I thought I had seen a slight movement in the corner, past all the liquid death that had been sprayed.

Could it be? There had been roaches that had survived microwaving. Could there have been one that survived the extermination? I felt a chilly breeze flow through my body, causing me to shiver. I promised that I would always keep an eye on my back, for that one roach who might have survived and is now out for bloody revenge.

But in the here and now, I realized, that the kitchen remained unusable. And the smell permeated through the rest of my rooms that my entire apartment had to be abandoned for a day, left out to air. It was a Pyrrhic victory at its finest!