I’m going to kill a man.

The others laughed at me when I told them. “Fritzi has delusions of latrodecteur!” they said. (Ha, ha. Funny.)

They think I’m kidding, but I’m not. I’m going to kill the man who lives in my house.

One old-timer wasn’t laughing. Boris said that if I killed the man, someone else would just move in, and it could be worse for us. I asked him, “How could it be any worse?” The man is a clean freak and he has a cat. A cat that likes to hunt. The man hates us and the cat thinks we’re delicious. We’ve already had “worse.”

Worst. Homeowner. Ever.

Boris said that new people sometimes have a house fumigated before moving in. That’s Boris. Grim.

If this man didn’t have the place fumigated first, it’s hard to believe anyone else would. He’s a spaz about bugs. (Great idea to move into a drafty old house with a cracked foundation, loser.)

Boris is right, though. Someone else would move in. But they might be better, right? Like the one that used to live here. I miss the old woman. She was frail and didn’t move around or clean much. She didn’t seem to mind or even see webs.

No cat.

Good times…

And, who knows? Maybe the new humans will have young children. Boris himself has told me such wonderful stories about families with babies. All the food on the floor. All the tasty critters that come for the food. And people with babies have little energy for cleaning.

So: Any reasonable objections? No? Then it’s settled.

The man must die.