Hot. Too damn hot. Sickenly hot. The motel room seemed to ripple as the decades-old wall unit blasted cool air that was nowhere near enough. The cold vapors seeped out through undetectable holes in the walls. The Van Man's face burned from his own sweat. He stood naked in the bathroom. He stood naked and stared into the mirror. This was his life at thirty-five. Unshaven, uncomfortable and nude. Then something caught his eye.
Just a tiny movement. Like a recollection of psychotropic drug use. He stared at the reflection of a glistening quiver behind him, on the wall. Van Man turned to inspect the phenomena. Disgust raced throughout his body. Disgust and hatred. They marched along, single file. Hundreds of them. Little Black Ants on a mission.
Where were they going? He followed the line across the wall and into the shower stall. Fuckers'll bite me when I wash, thought Van Man. But the ants appeared to stop in the stall. They were not looking for anything more than relief from the heat and the shower was a cool confine. He had to do something. They would kill him, Van Man knew that. Probably as he cleaned himself or even when he slept. The hatred and disgust boiled inside his brain. Van Man threw on clothing, grabbed his keys and left the apartment. The ants remained.
Twenty minutes later and Van Man returned. He carried a weapon. Raid. And with murder in his heart, Van Man sprayed death over the monsters. He felt immeasurable joy as the black creatures froze up, entering the void. A soothing calm rushed over him.
When the extermination was finished, hundreds were dead. Van Man turned on the shower faucet and washed the corpses down the drain. They were gone for good, into hell. After cleaning the walls and floor of any evidence of a crime, he stripped off his clothes and felt relief. Life was once again, for The Van Man, worth living.