Hawaiian Centipedes, stingrays with a 100 legs
In today’s excerpt from Maui Wowee, we’ll take a look at Hawaiian centipedes, evil brutish creatures that reigned fiendishly and everywhere in Happy Valley. Here’s a nice Hawaiian centipede right now, not that it’s nice. About the best thing you can say about it, is that it’s dead. How do I know it’s dead? Because it is not attacking the guy holding it. Let’s just say, no one would pick one up otherwise. Not without a lot of pain and serious regrets.
Our new pad in Happy Valley was comfy enough, long as you didn’t mind invasions of venomous insects. Or insomniac peacocks. Who knew those gorgeous birds were such a pain in the ass? Our friends Matt and Carmen, that’s who. They raised the damn things—not on purpose, but the horny birds wouldn’t stop mating. Anyway, they’d given some to the Sloth.
“Take as many as you want. Please.”
He thought they were being generous. The beautiful birds were noisy, and not as much fun to have around as you might think. On the other hand, they make excellent guards, going off whenever they heard a vehicle. Because there weren’t many vehicles in Happy Valley, they went off whenever they heard us. Afraid of the dark, they roosted on our roof. A pretty picture from the outside. Not so much inside. It was like having a dozen tap dancers on meth on our roof. Bad ones, with no rhythm.
“Like your guitar playing, Mikey,” said Ray.
The relentless scratching noise kept us awake and drove us up the wall. Ray grew to hate those birds.
“Shut the hell up,” he’d shout.
Obstinate for birds, they never listened. Ray decided to solve the problem with a shotgun. “They’ll listen to this.”
But Flower, into peace, love, and herbal enemas, was aghast at the idea, and wouldn’t let him induce silence.
I also opposed the idea. “Our roof leaks enough as it is.”
As for me, I found them irritating, but after living with African geese, even vultures would’ve been an upgrade. Plus, they ate centipedes, and that earned them a pass in my book.
My roommate Flower, a gentle soul, put up with a lot from her boyfriend Ray, who was not. A domestic goddess, she took care of the housekeeping. Good with math, she’d also give us the daily centipede report. Happy Valley seemed to be centipede central, and though the house’s foundation was raised on posts, the uninvited little devils still squirmed their creepy way in. You name a bug, we had it in spades: cockroaches, centipedes, spiders (big ones), and a natural history museum’s worth of weird-looking things. Many of them bristled with barbs, fangs, pincers, or stingers.
Pointing at a large bug with all of the above flying past, Flower said, “I don’t even know what to call those guys.”
Neither did anyone else. Unknown to science, some had no names yet. I started collecting various oddities, planning to turn over my collection to the Smithsonian; maybe have a hideous bug named after me. Imagine the honor. But it was the centipedes, arguably the creepiest bug on Mother Earth, that bothered us the most. Ray had a phobia of them. I was not fond of the terrifying monsters, either. Flower, who’d never felt their sting, said we should love them; that they were a vengeful God’s way of showing displeasure. Following a sting and a trip to the Emergency Room, she changed her mind, decided they’d been sent by Satan instead. A ‘pede attacked my sleeping neighbor on Oahu, climbing into his bed and biting his nuts.
Stingrays with a hundred legs
Big Steve claimed his balls (which had achieved grapefruit-sized proportions) had done nothing to provoke the incident and yet the ‘pede attacked them anyway. “Just ‘cause they were there.”
That’s how nasty Hawaiian centipedes are. No way I could love something that did that. The best way to deal with one was a quick stomp. Obviously, not when barefoot, and as I learned the hard way, not while wearing flip flops, either. They made Bruce Lee seem slow, and as I brought my lightning-fast foot down for a lethal squishing, my foe, moving even faster, poisoned the shit out of me. Worse, he got away before my stricken foot ever hit the ground. I spent the next three hours in excruciating pain, banging my fist and screaming every cuss word I knew, as mad at my myself as at my nemesis. Centipedes made wasps seem like pussies; grown men, too. They were sting rays with a hundred legs and our property was alive with them.
Before moving in, Ray had set off a barrage of bug bombs. Looking through the windows from the lanai, it looked like our house was on fire.
“You think that’s enough?” I’d asked.
Ray shrugged. “Hope so. That’s all they had on the island.”
We aired the place out, and after sweeping up a couple dozen cockroaches, countless spiders, scorpions, and way-too-many centipedes, we moved in. Ray and Flower went to the market to stock up on groceries while I relaxed at home with the dogs, entertaining/harassing them with some blues guitar. It’s not easy entertaining others when you’re tone deaf.
Listeners suggested, “Not easy? Try impossible.”
Still, I kept at it. After all, practice made. . .people walk away. Good. Music critics bugged me.
As I sat on the front steps, I noticed a prime example of my dreaded enemy. Da bugga stalking me was mid-sized, about ten inches long and thick as my middle finger. Which I gave him to let him know how I felt about his company. Though insulted, he didn’t attack. That could only mean one thing: he was dead. I looked at the ‘pede, then smiled at my killer guitar. Damn, I was good. Well, bad. Either way, I was proud. A revolting brute, the beast was a sort of reddish brown on top, but when I flipped him over, using a safety stick just in case, I could see the brilliant orange iridescent stripes on his belly—no doubt the last thing his prey saw as he climbed aboard for a snack.
They weren’t just creepy, they were fierce. Any insect that can kill and eat a baby rattlesnake is one badass bug. And they can. I saw it on TV. They have some in Venezuela that live in caves, get thirteen inches long. They slither their way to the cave roof, then hang down like venomous uvulas and snag bats as they fly by. I know, bats. Yuck. They probably hate the taste and do it just to show they can. They do not make good pets. Unless they’re dead. I used the safety stick to play with my pal for a minute. Nope, no fun, not even dead. . .
Still, I thought of a way to have some laughs with the ‘pede, and I moved my little buddy next to my bare foot. Even in death, his corpse posed in attack mode. The only mode centipedes come with. I’d never touched one before, except with the bottom of my work boots. And the one time with my flip flops. . .I mean, ankle. I wanted Ray to see the playful ‘pede when he came up the steps. When he returned with groceries under his arms, I stayed put and kept strumming, knowing it would annoy and distract him. And so, he didn’t notice the monster until his foot was inches from it. You should’ve seen the look on his face. I never saw a tan fade so fast or Ray jump so high. Ah, good times. Except for the smashed beers. I hadn’t thought that part through.
Ray, a lax student of the martial arts, knew some moves and used all of them on the dead centipede, squashing the corpse into a thin layer of toxic gunk. Seeking revenge for stings long past but still remembered, it took a minute or so to fully vent his fury. Finished, he stood back and took a hopeful look. You can never be too sure with resilient Hawaiian bugs. Proud of his work, he beamed a smile. Dressed in his usual khaki uniform, he looked like a deranged great white hunter admiring his tiny kill.
I strummed some chords, paraphrased something from the White Album. “Hey, Bungalow Ray, what did you slay. . .”
“I love the Beatles, please don’t ruin them for me,” begged Flower.
“What am I? Yoko Ono?”
“If only.”
The ultimate musical insult. I stopped singing, but feelings hurt, I kept strumming and got even.
Ray pointed at the goo. “Look, Flower, I got one.” Then to me, “Lucky for you I got home when I did.”
I would’ve told him it was already dead if not for the wasted beer. As we’d learn, ridding our house (let alone a hundred acres of rainforest) of centipedes proved an impossible task. Not that our work boots didn’t try their best.
I told my roomies, “I’m starting to see why the Sloth sold this place.
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