You launch at me, out of the plastic where you planned your ambuscade.

You land on your abdomen, waving your rat-tail whiskers and kill-a-pods in the air. I shudder at the thought of where you might strike next.

Oh look at the sinister in your beady eyes, cold marble polished black. You are drunken red, foaming strings of bubbles out of your hare lipped mouth. Are you too angry to speak?

I extend two hesitant fingers – one thumb and one index- and gingerly, oh so very cautiously, pull on your exoskeleton. You creep a little away from me; your smallish feet tap the floor in unison. Is that your game plan? It isn’t very good, you know.

The water in my cauldron is boiling and ready. I scoop your up and toss you in, letting the grumbling water devour you. Your funny little pokers scratch the inside.

Oh, how delicious you will be with some melted butter!