Negotiations with Whim

Me: I spy something black and shiny with antennae slinking by the floor molding and raise my sprayer. Halt. Show yourself, or I’ll shoot.  

Whim:  Go ahead, I’ll just run away.

Me:  Okay, now you’re making me mad…and grossing me out.

Whim: Yeah, whatever. I have a proposition for you that you should consider.

Me: “What are you talking about?! Wait, are you talking out loud?”

Whim:  No, I am speaking telepathically. We roaches have sophisticated brains. We don’t live very long, but we make up for it by fast thinking.

Me: Fast talking too! But, out with it. My trigger finger is getting itchy, and the hair on my skin is starting to crawl.

Whim: You need me. Now, hear me out.  Without me, you have nothing. No inspiration, no perspiration, no creepy crawling skin, no poems, no story.

Me: That’s true today. Gosh, you may be right. What was I thinking? 

Oh yeah, I know. I was eliminating a pest that could potentially give me a disease, thereby ridding one small corner of the planet from an infestation of ginormous ramifications.

Whim: Exactly! You can call me Whim. 

Me: I don’t talk to cockroaches; I exterminate them.

Whim: Alright, calm down. Here’s the thing. If you agree not to shoot me, I promise to move into the coconut palm. There is already another family living there, but they don’t have a sharing problem. 

Me: Really? Whim, you are a real bug, a rollercoaster ride.  And mildly entertaining.  How do I know that you will keep your word? I think that I will just shoot you and take my chances.

Whim:  Okay, OKAY, I’m leaving. I’m out of here.  You know you should talk to someone. You have issues.

Me: Yeah, and I’m about to have one less issue right now.

Whim: So, when do you want to meet again?

Me:  I don’t know. How about after the next writing starter? But outside!!

Whim: That’s negotiable. I could fly over, and we could meet on the lanai.

Me:  I wave him off, shake my head. And think of him surviving outside;  I’m going to need another muse.