Full of blood

You can tell when a mosquito’s full of blood. The profile, the waddling flight, the self-satisfied way they just sit there and digest. Strange that something so small can look fat, but they look fat. Post-Christmas-dinner sort of fat. They look too satisfied, and they don’t understand that this is how they give themselves away. Because when you’re in your room alone at night with the window closed, it’s not going to be anyone else’s blood. No, that mosquito is full of you. And it in turn fills you, but with cold righteous anger. You stay calm. Your nerves are shining steel wires. But you vow you will kill that sucker. Not angrily, not raging, but with calculated precision. She may have already finished the deed, but she’s sure as hell not getting away with a free meal. The buffet is now closed, but the waiter saw you sneaking those bread rolls into your purse, madam. It’s retribution time.

The other thing mosquitoes don’t understand is, don’t be complacent. If you got away with the heist, get clear of the area. Because if you hang around, the bank is going to figure it out pretty soon. And the final point of incomprehension? If you are a small black object, don’t site on a large white plain. Did Sun-Tzu, Mao Tse-Tung, Xanana Gusmao, teach you nothing? Stay on the move. Use shadows to your advantage. Trust no place and nobody. Because where you are now, you are advertising what you’ve done, you are inviting a response, and you have positioned yourself in such a way as to ensure the highest likelihood of getting it.

The hand moves, the night stands still, and the mosquito is detonated in an art deco squelch of red on white. Yep, blood alright. That heavily laden there was no way she was going to get off the ground in time. And so she becomes a part of the mosaic on the wall behind your desk: the plain black silhouettes of empty comrades, impressed into the paint; and those pinned in small smears of rust that were once crimson like hers, fellow victims of principle. The procession leads upward, outward, dot-to-dot into the high corner where the light can’t quite bear to reach, and for any other hoverers, the example is complete. The lesson? Don’t get too pleased with yourself, or you’ll be turned into modern art.

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2 Responses to Full of blood

  1. Dan R says:

    Fantastic blog Mr. Lemon. Keep ’em coming. Thanks for the entertainment thus far.

  2. simo says:

    Touche…although, is there any more satisfying form of retribution then picking one of those fat, full fuckers out of mid air and rubbing it between your fingers?

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