Murderer In Our Midst

There are a lot of reasons why my mother adores my husband: they both smoke the same odorous brand (Winstons) and freely filch from each other’s supply; they both share the same people management angst, and Saturday nights often find them railing against the horrors of dealing with incompetent staff, a cloud of smoke over their heads.

It has lately come to my attention that murdering mosquitoes is apparently one of reasons that draw them together, like to like.

Mom bought one of those electric insect killers shaped like a badminton racquet, with electrified strings to fry the little winged suckers into oblivion. Remembering her favorite (and only) son-in-law, she decided to buy two.

Atch was ecstatic. Not only did the device call to mind one of his favorite racquet sports, I suspect it brought back fond memories of the days when he used to electrocute poor hapless cockroaches in a basin of water by touching live wires from a voltage regulator to the surface. How they danced, he recalled with glee, his own eyes dancing with the possibilities of his new toy.

My mom is a notorious insect-killer herself. In her youth, she has smashed medicine cabinets and glass-topped tables in pursuit of this quest. She still holds the record for decimating the most number of common houseflies with a single rubber band, all within the space of minutes – a feat yet to be broken by any member of her family.

The night Atch received this gift was a night rife with opportunity. He went from room to room, turning off all the electric insect repellent lights (yes, he had them installed In. Every. Room.), waving the racquet in front of his face, Woog fast on his heels.

Ooooooh, they went, each time it hit some unfortunate flying body, cackling like crazy at the crackling sounds of said body frying on the wires. Woog begged for a try. For this potential insect killer, it beat having to wait for the sputtering sound from one of the stationary lights.

Late that night, Atch stationed himself downstairs in the dark with the tv on, electric mosquito racquet in hand. Aren’t you coming to bed? I asked for the umpteenth time.

In a minute, Aif, came the distracted reply, let me just finish this show. But his eyes were avidly scanning the perimeter, his racquet arm poised eagerly for the kill.

I sighed. This was going to be one long night.

Atch in action