A man walks through the front door with a gallon of bleach in his right hand, a bag of cat food and a vape pen battery in his left. He walks across the living room, directly into the kitchen. He sets the cat food on the counter, the bleach on the glass stovetop. He then leaves the kitchen, walking into the bedroom to plug in the battery for the night. As he does, he thinks, “If I wear clothes I care about, I’ll fuck up and ruin them for sure.”
He returns to the kitchen a minute later and carefully opens the bleach. Wearing only his underwear, he removes the seal without losing a drop. Not that he doesn’t care about his underwear. It’s just that, damnit, you gotta draw the line somewhere.
Wanting to be as close to the front door as possible when he’s done, he leaves the kitchen and goes directly into the master bathroom. He pours a little into the second sink, then the first, then the tub, and then the toilet. And then he loosely places the cap on the bottle and makes his way to the front bathroom—right outside the kid’s room.
He quietly closes the door behind himself, turns on the light, and does another pour into the sink. Another for the tub. And one for the toilet, 2000 Flushes be damned!
“And so it begins, with the bugs. Again.” He thinks, “I hate this time of year.”
Everyone terrified by the big cockroach casually crossing the living room floor not an hour ago is already fast asleep. Meanwhile, high on life, 40-something man in his underwear begins his annual chemical warfare campaign against the foul depths of the sewer system. Or the hoarder lady next door’s house of moaning felines.
“Not on my watch.”