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3
He lay in his bed and watched the ebbing of the green mass, his eye twitching
involuntarily with fright as he saw a green tentacle grasp at an unsuspecting cockroach and suck it shrieking into
the shimmering mound. The mass quivered slightly and then emitted a low, satisfied groan.
"Snap out of it", Kelvin told himself, and decided that, in common with all the great detectives of his
age (nine), he would devour some toast in order to set his masterful mind to work. He irrelevantly thought briefly
about a book by Chaucer that he had once lifted from a table, and then put down again without so much as blowing
the dust of the cover, then with all the quite inconsiderable strength he could muster, he lifted his amazing human
hang-glider arms from beneath the sheets. A terrible creaking sound - not unlike the tearing of metal on the side
of a stricken oil-tanker, which had waywardly happened upon a jagged rock in the South China Sea whilst the captain
arrogantly entertained his shipmates down below with his second-to-none 'shagging walrus' impression - rang out,
as his amazing arms broke themselves free from the moulding, malodorous, sprawling heap of biodiversity that he
called his duvet. Terrified fauna of all shapes, sizes and political persuasions spewed untidily onto the floor
where they were consumed by the green and black masses next to Kelvin's bed.
He raised himself tentatively to his knees, and with a huge sweep of his amazing human hang-glider arms, discovered
by the Luminous Toad all those years ago, he glided towards the doorway that led to the kitchen, accompanied by
rounds of applause and standing ovations from his appreciative audience, the cockroaches - and a small gurgling
noise from the remains of his dear frog-like friend. He soared gracefully into the doorway, a victim once again
of his tragic daily miscalculation involving the size of the doorway, and his wide, yet somewhat eye-wateringly
beautiful wingspan.
The applause of the cockroaches, whose memory should never be praised too highly, turned, once again, to howls
of anger and despair as he landed with a dull thud in the midst of the assembled insects, crushing several thousand
of them. "Keeps the population in check", he thought to himself, quietly (so as not to arouse the suspicions
of the telepathic, cowardly one, still hiding in the crack). He allowed his mind to wander on this delightful Malthusian
principle, before noticing a crowd of fuming cockroaches rounding on him, seeking revenge for the fate of their
beloved friends.
A small one near his ankle fashioned a small crossbow out of a discarded toothpick and the remnants of an annihilated
spider's web, and proceeded to launch several dung pellets up his trouser leg.
"Not today, I don't need this today", thought Kelvin, as he considered the mournful quest that lay ahead
of him to seek justice for his dearly departed, and incandescent friend. His recently erected bedroom shelf looked
down on him in dismay…
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