and now it was inside

 

I stepped out onto the Lanai, heading to the back yard to look at the lake, when I noticed a beetle had gotten through the screen and into the Lani.  It was at the end of the couch and as it noticed me, it stood up on its hind feet and snarled at me, like some vicious animal.  I wouldn’t have been concerned if it weren’t for the enormous size of the thing.  How had such an insect grown so large?  I took a quick step back.  It was then I noticed it’s disgusting odor. I wanted to gag.

The thing wasn’t just in the Lanai—it owned the Lanai. A beetle the size of a small dachshund, lacquered shell glinting like a freshly waxed hearse. When it rose up on its hind legs, its front pair hung in the air like a boxer deciding which rib to crack first. And that snarl—good grief. Not the hiss of an insect, but the wet, guttural rasp of something that had learned anger by watching late‑night cable.

The odor hit like a sour, fermented stench, like someone had left a gym sock full of onions in a sauna. It rolled off the creature in waves, each one daring me to keep my lunch. I could practically see the smell, shimmering in the air like heat above asphalt.

And the worst part wasn’t the size or the posture or even the snarl. It was the way it looked at me—like I were the intruder. Like this was its couch, its Lani, its lake view, and I were just some furless, underdeveloped mammal interrupting its afternoon.

 

 

 to be continued