...waiting for the thunder/ Standing in the rain/ I've been itching all over/ I don't know know know which way is which....
I sit sweltering on my front porch, pirating the neighbor's wireless, using my own flesh as bait.
I battle vicious insects, their evil black bodies jaggedly striped with white, like low-slung sportsters. In the moments between pageloads, I scan my skin, slap away the itch with a satisfied,
and flick the crushed corpse to the concrete at my feet, willing the scent of mosquito carnage to warn the swarm away.
Every one I kill signifies several million that will never be born.
When I return to the house, it will be as victor, streaked with the warpaint remnants of the bodies of my tiny enemies, redolent with sweat and blood.
A citronella candle might be more effective.
But where's the joy in that?
(The Itch; KIX)