The Fatal Stomp
Mark lined up his shot. He didn’t want to miss and send the bug scurrying under the fridge where he couldn’t reach it. He raised the heavy boot high above his head, aiming directly for the center of the dark shape. With a grunt of exertion, he brought it down. *STOMP.* The sound echoed loudly in the silent kitchen, sharper than he intended. Mark winced, hoping he hadn’t woken the baby upstairs.
He held the boot down for a few extra seconds, applying pressure, twisting slightly to ensure the job was done. He wanted to be absolute. There is nothing worse than lifting your shoe and seeing the pest limp away. He felt the sickening crunch through the thick sole of the boot. It was gross, but necessary. “Got you,” he whispered to himself. He lifted the boot slowly, expecting to see the flattened remains of the pest.