I Will Not Sing Praises to Billionaires

Call to Arms


Letters From The Front: Roach Wars AD 2024

Aren't you supposed to be killing things?
Aren’t you supposed to be killing things?

Dearest Suzanne (?),

I’m afraid this may be my last letter to you. You may have noticed how sparse correspondence has become. We have begun using pen ink for hydration, and to draw moustaches on the people on the cover of our last issue of People magazine. Soon, it will end (this or the war, I cannot be sure). Even now we are fully engaged with the enemy on the front line. Oh, I’d hate to taint your sweet ears with talk of the violence. I can only say that I have one clean sock left. That alone speaks volumes, My Dove.

War changes a man. I have witnessed the horror firsthand. Before my eyes, men have soiled themselves in fear and succumbed to depravity and madness, and that was only during breakfast. No matter how tough a soldier’s exterior, he quivers and squeals like a little girl at the sight of a Roach. Everyday is a new betrayal.

Roachkind force us to become monsters to draw some feint hope of victory. It’s them or us. And if you weren’t part of the world we die to defend, I would gladly forsake my post at the vanguard. In fact, I tried. They shouted at me.

Their cowardly attempts at assassination have proven fruitless. Each night their soldiers attempt to breach our camp and slay the commanding officers in their sleep. I show them no mercy, My Love. Curse my aptitude at insecticide! I am a murderer! I wield death! My hands are stained with the blood of hundreds of their kind. To be honest, they don’t really have blood – just some icky white thing similar to that brand of toothpaste you’re so fond of (I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled toothpaste for you, My Dear). My soul is on fire with rage and aggression and hatred. Some of the men say that’s a fever but I took some aloe vera.

I can decapitate an entire squadron of roaches with a war slipper and yet, I cannot even sleep alone because of the nightmares. It’s become so bad that our chief arms sponsor – Adidas – have begun to ration the truffle butter. Must we eat our toast with margarine like savages?!

I long to feel the warmth of your hands in mine again. To hear your sweet voice remind me I’m late in the mornings. To awkwardly gaze at your lovely face when I mistakenly press Video Call on Hangouts for Android. How is my boy, our son? He must be getting taller each day. Thank the heavens he has your genes too. Never tell him what I do, My Angel. Lie to our child. Oh the lies! Make him believe his father was an honest, hard-working man. Tell him I drive a Corrolla and install water-features for a living. Never ever tell him the truth; that I’m actually a rocket scientist turned war hero. The shame.

Truth be told, I am afraid to come home after this experience. War has left me a hollow, broken man. Would you even love me like you did before? This has nothing to do with the ridiculous rumor that I lost our wedding ring gambling for a pair of Yeezys.

Hush, save your tears, My Sweet! We can only hope for the best. For victory and peace, at last. I promise to kill them all. The brown ones, the flying ones, the stupid ones that run in your direction even. Stay strong, My Oasis.

Yours in Love and Pesticide
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PS: I’ve attached a photo of myself holding a shovel to keep you warm at night.