Unholy Trinity: Call The Exterminator

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

One Fearless Night

The camping-trip honeymoon had been Agnes’ idea, to help Kyle confront his unmanly phobia of insects. First, her smiling, nude form had helped ease his terror of chirping crickets. Second, the brief shock of a tick-sighting had proved to be a harmless skin mole. Third, after making love to the pitter-patter of raindrops on their tent, he had drifted blissfully to sleep beneath loving caresses employing insect repellent lotion.

When Kyle awoke the next morning, he rolled over to kiss Agnes, only to discover her eyes and tongue bulging and blood-swollen ticks blanketing every inch of her clammy, white skin.

Dreams of Revenge

Months after his wife’s grisly death in the woods, Kyle still suffered from horrific nightmares.  The theme was always the same: ubiquitous, invasive ticks. Every time he pulled off his socks or lifted his chin to shave: ticks.  Every time he brushed his teeth or sat on the toilet: more ticks.  He typically awoke to the pounding of his heart and an echoing whisper: “Revenge! Revenge!”

Hypnotherapy and anti-anxiety medications helped only slightly. Ultimately, it was the haunting whisper, which finally began to give him peace. “Revenge!” he agreed, squashing a bug. “Revenge,” he agreed, setting fire to the forest.

A Job with No Boss

Employing ex-cons was risky, but subsidized.

The exterminator twisted open the jar on his desk, extracted a wiggling cockroach, and held it near the job applicant’s face. “Do insects bother you?” he tested.

Kyle squished the pest in his fist and then wiped the jelly on his pants. “Ticks killed my wife,” he growled. “I hate insects.”

Marty smiled uncomfortably. Seeking to recover high status, he pointed out that ticks, like spiders, are “arachnids”, not insects.

Picking up the glass jar, Kyle smashed it into Marty’s face and then ground the shards into the exterminator’s arteries.

“Die, insect,” he said.