So we had ripped up the carpet, wrung out water, bleached the boards, and were letting it all dry, draped over boxes, in a general mess.
And a few hours went by.
And we went in to check on the progress, and James stopped a few feet in, and turned back, and said, very kindly, “You might not want to come in here.”
“How many?” I asked glumly, having already killed a few adventurers that got into the rest of the house.
James considered and then said “Less than a hundred?”
And lo! Like Lot’s wife, Ursula could not resist, and cast her gaze ‘cross a scene reminiscent of that from “Temple of Doom,” with a cast of inch-long leggy things, which evidentally thought that the newly nude, slightly soggy boards were the Promised Land. The floor was, arguably, not “awash” with centipedes, but it was at least “liberally drizzled” with them.
And Ursula’s skin went “Woopwoopwoop!” like Dr. Zoidberg and did not so much crawl off her body as sprint wildly off it, out the door, down the street, and last I saw, it had bought a one way ticket to Siberia.
The bed has been re-located to the living room. The carpet has been adjusted. The room will be tamed with bleach and Raid, by James.
And I’m going to forget that room exists entirely, and pretend that this is a one-bedroom for at least a week.
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