A few weeks back I spotted a cockroach perched near the edge of a shelf on my newly assembled bookcase, so I whomped it with a beefy rolled-up issue of Vanity Fair. It crumpled like an aluminum can and none of its appendages twitched, which satisfied me that it wouldn’t be going anywhere just then other than hell.
I stepped away to grab the trashcan and when I turned back to the bookcase to dispose of the corpse IT WAS GONE. It had not fallen to the floor. It had not staggered off to die fully behind a David Foster Wallace hardcover. It was not to be found anywhere, which was eerie and a total horror movie setup. I thought I would turn my head very slowly and see the cockroach lounging on my love seat, uninjured and grown as large and surly as Orson Welles. Or the script would read: "Later that night as Jason sleeps, vengeful cockroaches swarm into his orifices and snack on his organs, much to his consternation."
Anyway, I was reminded of this today when I read a recent Scientific American article on zombie cockroaches, which do exist. Hardy little fuckers. I will now be unsurprised yet still very, very disappointed if I find that mangled bug hiding out in my Raisin Bran.