Know what my motto is? “My extermination clears a path to your liberation.” Your liberation, from fear and suffering and infection.
They’re hard to see. By you can smell ‘em. Yeah, they’re here alright. This is their favorite room in the entire hotel. Smell that? It’s like rotting raspberries wrapped in a stanky sheet. You can smell it, right? It’s the odor of indecency. Thought I got ‘em all last week. Or most. And no one comes better than me, Crispin Colvin, exterminator extraordinaire! Damn straight!
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking why does that fool spray all that deadly chemical and not wear a mask? A mask? I don’t need no friggin’ mask. I ain’t got nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Purity protects me. Purity of essence!
You doubt me? You think I’ve sniffed too many fumes and delude myself that spirit is superior to body? My body of work speaks for itself. And I’m here to protect all of you from the evil that goes by many names— chintzes, mahogany flats, red coats, wall louse, crimson ramblers. Yes, I’m talkin’ bedbugs. Those little demons are masters of deception. Anywhere you can slide a credit card a bedbug could fit. They can flatten themselves down to fit in any crack or crevice. Feeling itchy my friends?
I’m like a freakin’ suicide bomber, willing to die for a cause or a reason in any season in order to flush away all of their bloodsucking trauma and filth. Filth, you say?
Don’t all the magazines and newspapers stories make a point of telling us that bedbugs aren’t attracted to dirty, unclean, grimy places? It’s true. They don’t even inject any dangerous diseases in the warm succulent flesh they feast on. Your flesh. That’s not their brand of torment. The filth I’m talking about is PERVERSION! A filthy perversion of body and soul! Your body and soul!
Do I hear snickering? Go ahead, laugh. Laugh and show your ignorance. There’s a national epidemic of bedbugs in these United States of America and not because of physical filth. It’s because of moral filth. Within the fabric of American life are the crevices where these gluttons skulk and hide, waiting for the opportunity to siphon your blood to fuel the most despicable acts of sexual depravity this side of a Tiger’s wood!
You ever hear the label scientists put on bedbug mating rituals? They call it TRAUMATIC COPULATION! That’s right. And do you know why they call it traumatic? It’s because the male ignores the female’s genitalia. Rejects her pathway to creation. He refuses to gently place his sperm into a female opening. Oh no. If they did that it would mean the males would have to court the females and show them respect by trying to please or appease them. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but not in the wicked world of bed-buggery!
A male bedbug’s sex organ is a weapon greater than my own. It’s a long sharp spear with a hypodermic hook attached at the end. The male pounces on the female, holds her firmly while she struggles, and then rapes her by stabbing his razor sharp hook over and over into her back, her stomach, any exposed area on her body. He stabs and squirt these huge doses of sperm directly into her mutilated flesh. If she’s lucky enough that this mating wound doesn’t develop a serious infection and kill her, then his seed swims to her ovaries. Every time he gores her flesh it leaves a scar.
I ask you, can a society that treats its females like this be less deserving of extinction? I am a warrior for righteousness.
Brace yourself, my friends. There are even more shocking perversions male bedbugs commit against all that is decent and true in nature. They indulge in bestiality. You heard right. Bestiality. Twenty percent of their sexual encounters are with foreign animals. The little hopheads will bang anything that even looks like a bedbug. These perverts have sex up to 200 times a day and they don’t give a damn who it’s with. These gangsta bugs spend their whole lives just stabbing and shooting, stabbing and shooting.
They stab anything that moves with their pointed pricks and shoot a disgusting amount of splooge into whomever or whatever they gash and slash. If a male bedbug were human in size, he’d be shooting seven gallons of man milk with each ejaculation! It ain’t human and it ain’t decent. Killing them is a sacred privilege.
Domination! Abomination! Proliferation! Irritation! Aggravation! Defecation! Fornication! And Homo-gen-iz-ation of an entire generation of male miscreants!
Yes! Yes! Yes! These bloodsucking fiends engage in homosexuality more than any other depraved sexual activity. Fifty percent of their illicit intercourse are the rape of other males who have just sucked—your—blood. And when the sperm of the rapist enters the male, the jism searches for ovaries. When none are found it mixes with the raped male’s man gravy and is passed on in his next encounter with a female. Sick. Sick.
You wanna scratch? You feel them chewing on your tender skin? Where’s the itch? The itch is in their lust for your blood. They cannot indulge their dirtbag dicks without feeding on your juicy red plasma. They must feed on and steal your lifeblood energy in order to satisfy their corrupt desires. It’s the warmth of your bodies and the sweetness of your breath that draws them to your vibrant flesh.
I smell them!
I listen to them!
I fill my weapon with venom and wait… wait… wait… wait….
