On Pest Control

The first time my chest swelled in profound admiration for my little brother was during the Annual Summertime Cockroach Invasion, an event which came to the Boyce home with more seasonal regularity than Santa Claus. Every June 1st swarms of Periplaneta americana would descend upon our kitchen and garage like the godless Comanches of a Cormac McCarthy novel - gorging and humping, pissing and puking, conducting bizarre rituals to some nauseating barbaric deity. It was basically a six-legged Baptist Revival all over the counters, under the fridge, crammed in the pantry, and lurking in every cardboard box containing the thing I needed or wanted at that moment.
As the summer sun blazed hotter and hotter, more and more cockroaches sought refuge in our air-conditioned Ellis Island, and the protective relics I carried with me on trips to the fridge became holier and holier. Daniel, on the other hand, was not only unperturbed by our influx of visitors, he seemed to possess a monomaniacal relish for their arrival, as Ahab did the spout of the White Whale. Night after night, I would find my brother, wearing the Old Man's loafers on his hands like the Chosen One, born with four feet and sent to this planet by God to make our kitchen a little less creepy-crawly. Each time the rubber soles slapped the linoleum and crumpled an exoskeleton, Daniel could be heard boastfully scoffing at his enemy so easily squished. Perhaps, as with the most well-matched nemeses, there existed a common respect, and thus the exuberance on the battlefield. Daniel versus the cockroaches was like Wellington versus Bonaparte, like Balboa versus Creed. It was truly a sight to behold. In the days of the Civil War, rich ladies would take a picnic lunch to a safe vantage point and watch the Confederates and the Unionists mow each other down. Watching Daniel's face light up as he stomped the life out of a bug was ten times better.
My family has since relocated to the frozen forests of the Wisconsin, where people are a lot more serious about vermin. Bats flutter down chimneys. Feral barn cats terrorize the countryside. Every once in a while a confused bear will wander into the more rural neighborhoods. Cockroaches are largely absent - and anyway, when Yogi and Boo Boo are in the backyard, ready to disembowel anyone that gets between them and the rotten Kentucky Fried Chicken in the trash can, who gives a shit about bugs?
I worried that Daniel would have no one with whom to do battle, which is sad, as life is always more interesting when you have an arch-enemy or two to help kill the dull hours. Dad has reserved the pleasures of cattle-prodding bats for himself, and, let's face it, feral barn cats are kind of out the kid's league. There's always my mother, but Daniel needs something he can smash into a fine paste. Until he's willing to cook his own chili, Mom will be more of a sparring partner and never a true foe in need of elimination.
Fortunately The Great White North is full of folklore. Recently, a family friend sent Daniel a letter, alerting him to the existence the Hodag. The Hodag looks like a half-bulldog, half-stegosaurus and it lurks in the woods outside the town of Rhinelander. In 1893 a man named Eugene Shepherd assembled a posse to kill the beast, and, according to his claims, was only able to perform the task via dynamite.
Daniel read and re-read the letter, giggling hysterically as he stared wide-eyed at the accompanying photo, and it was clear that we were witnessing a case of antagonism at first sight. His response, written in the block print of a finicky little boy, read simply, "Thanks for the picture of the Hodag. I don't have any dynamite right now. But I know where I can get some. Love, Daniel."
God help us all.