"We're exterminators. Someone saw a cockroach up on 12."

"That must be some cockroach."

"Bite your head off, man."


With Nameless's resignation and pending voyage to Mexico, the fishwrap moved the only other guy reporter in our bureau to another office to take her place. So as of today I'm the man of the office. Fine - the boy of the office.

So what happens on my first day? I finish a long phone interview and our classifieds lady asks me, in a steady but worried voice, if I could kill a spider under her desk. With great power, comes great responsibilty.

Ha! No problem. A little spider, huh? I'll go get some paper towels from the restroom.


So I look under her desk ... and that little fucker turned out to be one of those size-of-your-palm, bite-your-head-off hairy mutants. Screw paper towels - anybody have a fricking paper-weight?

One of the ad reps called it a "tarantula mini-me." Another rep, who sounded like she knows her desert creepy-crawlies, ID'd the culprit as a wolf spider. Yup, that looks about right.

I used a rolled-up newspaper - Sunday edition, of course. Three excrutiating whacks took care of him. Poor guy was like Bobby Bacala shopping for model trains - he never saw it coming.

As you were.