Skeeters

Our little cabin is under siege. The attacks generally worsen after dark when the bloodthirsty bastards come out of hiding and turn their focus to war.
I’m talking about the gigantic mosquitoes infesting our home.
Nightly Chad and I wake to the obnoxious buzzing of a fleet of mosquitoes desperate for sustenance. Even when we launch a pre-slumber, surprise assault on them, they return hours later. Dressed for combat they arrive, weapons drawn, prepared for mass destruction in true kamikaze form.
For the past three nights Chad and I have sat awake armed with a fly swatter, a headlamp and flashlight, positioned like snipers. Neither of us breathe a word, our one motive is to kill ever last bloodsucker. We have formulated the ultimate kill tactic. One of us sits with our back to the headboard while the other sits facing it. This gives us a full 360-degree swatting range, increasing our odds of fatally wounded enemies.
I am usually the bait, as it has been observed that the bugs favour me to Chad. (Proving I am far sweeter than he) Slowly they become comfortable and land to feast on my blood, but before they bite Chad slaps down the swatter squishing the bastard.
It is always a rush when we get one. But the excitement quickly dissipates when more mosquitoes come to avenge their brother’s death. That’s when the feud turns deadly. Chad and I are constantly slapping, swatting and squishing. I have to admit I find pleasure in slapping Chad. Depending on whether he has pissed me off in some way earlier in the day, the slap will be administered with only necessary pressure or with brute force.
Last night was one of the worst nights we’ve had. We couldn’t keep up with the enemy. So eventually we had to surrender. It was hardest on Chad. He eventually ran to the closet to retrieve a protective hoodie, which he tied so tightly around his face, only his nose was exposed. Of course he awoke to a giant bite on the tip of his shnoze, adding a delightful detail to his already crooked nose.
When he finally hopped out of bed something inside him snapped. Dressed only in his undies he paced around the cabin with his trustee blowtorch, lighting up any winged pest that crossed his path. With every scorched carcass I cheered and Kaz, in response, barked and jumped around frenzied with excitement. The trouble it all seemed very normal. Nothing strange about a underwear clad hubby torching mosquitoes and a wife and dog cheering him on.
I hope these mountains aren’t starting to go to our heads.

I can't get any photos to upload... strange.