DRAGON SLAYER

NO LIVING CREATURE WAS HARMED DURING THE PRODUCTION OF THIS STORY

Somewhere between REM sleep and semi-consciousness exists a murky wasteland populated with memories and aspirations, an empire of hope and regret, a kingdom of possibilities, tragedies, and good fortune. I was shaken from that wasteland by the screams of the woman next to me, my wife.

I sat upward and leaped from the bed and onto my feet, my CPAP mask still attached, the hose yanked the machine from my nightstand and it fell to the floor, the water reservoir emptied out onto the carpet as I pulled the mask from my face. It must be a home invasion I thought, a masked intruder or two with robbery and carnage on their minds, but it wasn’t.

Illuminated by the television screen, a television that eases my wife into sleep, was a flying marauder, circling the room in silence, a foul, flying rodent, its wingspan looked gigantic as it sped from our room and down the hallway.

“Get that fucking thing out of the house,” my wife shrieked, blankets pulled to her neck.

I responded with quick thinking. I checked each bedroom and closed open doors. It wasn’t my first experience with these disease infected bastards, over the years I had evicted two or three. Corner it first, eliminate escape possibilities, and then as it rested in the folds of curtains, or upon a wall, cover it with a box of some sort, and ease something between the box and the wall, trapping the demon within.

This time was different, my wife followed me into each room and down the hallway, until I spotted my nemesis, tucked into the corner of an open closet, a small brown mass pulled into itself, its miniature claws still visible.

“Kill that fucking thing,” my wife demanded as she crouched behind me. She handed me a toilet brush. Anger had welled upon her face.

“It’s better to just catch it, they carry rabies you know, shouldn’t take a chance on having it bleed anywhere,” I replied.

“You never listen to me, I said kill that fucking thing,” she screamed.

Against my better instincts I raised the toilet brush, but Count Dracula sensed the oncoming violence and launched into the air once again, circling the room. I pushed my wife from the room and closed the door. We needed a plan now that it was mobile.

“There’s a vacuum cleaner on the stair landing, why don’t you just suck it up with that?”

Her suggestion was not without merit, it could bring an abrupt end to this drama.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I responded, “but we’ll need to be all set when I go back in, the vac needs to be plugged in, and the carpet head needs to be off.”

“Are you for real,” she countered, “you need to get in there and kill that fucking thing pronto, I’ve had enough of your plans and theories.”

“Let’s give it a few minutes, until it latches on to a wall or the curtains.”

“I’m sick of you overthinking everything, I’ll get the vac and plug it in, suck it out of mid-air if you have to, just get rid of it.”

I acquiesced and stood at the door as she handed me the vacuum cleaner handle, my thumb stroked the on-off switch as I eyed the attached metal tubing. I took a deep breath and eased the door open and spotted my prey, it had folded itself into a corner in the far side of the room. I approached in silence, but the vacuum canister stopped short, I couldn’t pull it any closer.

“I need more cord,” I whispered.

“That’s all you’ve got, the extension tube is long enough, what the hell are you waiting for?”

There were tears in my wife’s eyes, I would need to slay this dragon out of sheer guilt if nothing else, my exasperation with her had morphed into pity.

I crept closer and switched the vacuum on, but I was inches short, and the beast was airborne in a split-second, and I swung the extension tubing at the ceiling and at the walls in abject futility. A near miss brought its trajectory downward and it fell onto my wife’s head.

My wife has long, beautiful hair, and she is proud of it. She spends hours cultivating the look she wants, and she has a cabinet full of hair products. Shampoos and conditioners and hair spray, and hair dryers and curling tools, and there was an understandable look of panic about her face that crushed my soul.

My only choice was to pull the creature from her head with the vacuum, it was a decision to be made in the moment, and it was not without risk, but I made that decision as I issued a defiant threat to the demon.

“Die motherfucker, die.”

I flipped the switch and I heard a gulp coming from the vacuum hose and I was sure the flying rat had been swallowed whole, but my wife’s hair was now tangled and pulled into the tube, and she screamed and sobbed.

“It’s still pulling on my hair, I can feel it, get that fucking thing away from me now.”

In desperation I turned the vac on again, but it only pulled her head tighter to the vacuum tubing. Tears streaked down her face as I tugged on the hose, but it didn’t budge, only her head moved, and I thought for a moment I heard scratching coming from the hose, and I knew what had to be done.

“We’re going to need medical intervention, we need it tested for rabies, and we’re going to need the vac removed from your head without causing injury, if you start bleeding, disease will find a way in.”

Emergency rooms on a weekend night are busy and that Friday was no exception. There was a line stretching out the door, those with chest pain were allowed in first, while my wife, the vacuum cleaner, and I waited among those with bar fight injuries and other alcohol and drug related maladies.

When it came our turn to address the triage nurse, a nurse with the appearance of a jaded, salty veteran, she looked over my shoulder and to someone behind me.

“Hey you, yeah you asshole, if you’re going to puke, puke in the waste basket.”

It was obvious she was no stranger to Friday nights at this ER, in this neighborhood, and she looked me squarely in the eye after taking my wife’s name and insurance information, and she welcomed us without judgement or ambivalence.

“Let me guess,” she said, “a bat removal gone wrong?”