Usually, I can't abide by killin'. I don't like to kill, but sometimes, a man has to. A man has to take care of business. And sleeping over Wendy's loft, the crickets screech their diddleys on through the night. Upon repeated re-awakening, come 4 a.m., time comes for a man to get on that business. Time for a man to crush it. No need to be a fluster fuck about it though. Cooly, methodically. Walk over to the corner where the noise emits. Discover it's coming from up high, apparently the lil' fellow perched on a beam in the ceiling. Nude. Go and get the ladder. Climb on up, headlight strapped on to the head. Lil' guy leaning over the edge of the beam, probly with a right proper view of the sleeping folks. Making his behavior that much more inexcusable. Try to crush the lil' guy with one's key, but he hops back. Down and looking for something long and thin to get in the crack. Wendy informs she has Raid. Handy, and grabbed. On back up, and spray the shit outta that crack. And with that, no more cricket cries. Again, not something I abide or condone on a general basis. Crickets, usually totally digable. But on this day, I will admit to a certain flush of satisfaction. The noise has ended, and our protagonists can now rest most sleepfully.