If I had a dollar for every time I almost died, I'd have enough to buy my own damn roach motel.
But alas, I was broke.
Because I am a cute cockroach. Let's emphasize that. *Shines*
And right now, I am in the Zhongnanhai, dodging death like a six-legged action hero on too much caffeine.
The Situation:
I had made a grave miscalculation. It was supposed to be a simple food heist—just another Tuesday for an experienced fridge raider. But the moment I scuttled into the Zhongnanhai kitchen, things went sideways.
First, the janitor me.
Then came the scream.
Then came the cleaning products.
I had no idea what was in that industrial-strength cleaning spray, but it smelled like citrus-flavored death and burned like Satan's mouthwash. The janitor was relentless, blasting the air with chemicals like he was in an '80s action movie, yelling things like:
"DIE, YOU MONSTER!"
And
"NOT IN MY KITCHEN, YOU DON'T!"
I zigzagged across the marble floor like my life depended on it—because it absolutely did! <.<
The janitor was surprisingly athletic for a man who probably had a pension. Every time I thought I had a clean getaway, the janitor countered with an Olympic-worthy spritz of spray. It was like dodging sniper fire, but the bullets were lemon-scented and made his exoskeleton tingle in a way I did not appreciate.
I skittered under a cabinet, gasping for air.
This was bad.
His shell felt sticky from the chemicals, and if I didn't get out soon, I'd be the first cockroach in history to die smelling like "Mountain Breeze." (feeling high-end.)
And then—a shadow loomed.
The janitor's hand appeared, flipping up the cabinet door. I had a split second to react.
Option A: Accept fate. Go out with dignity*. Maybe even say something poetic*.
Option B: SCREAM INTERNALLY AND RUN LIKE HELL!!
I went with B.
I launched himself into the open air, somersaulting like a tiny action hero. The janitor swatted at him, missing by a millimeter. I hit the ground running.
Straight into another janitor.
"THERE'S TWO OF THEM?!" I wheezed, dodging the second wave of chemical warfare.
"GET IT!"
"USE THE BIG GUNS!"
Big guns?! What big guns?!
I had no time to find out. I was sprinting for my life, antennae flattened, legs moving so fast they blurred.. I dodged a mop, slid under a rolling cart of dirty dishes, and—
SPLASH.
Oh no.
I am wet. I am wet, and now I smell like a blend of disinfectant and government-grade soap. *Shines while turning pale*
I barely had time to recover before a canister labeled "ANTI-PEST 5000" was shaken, aimed, and—
FOOM!
A fire extinguisher-sized blast of mystery foam exploded in my direction.
It barely missed me, splattering against a cabinet door. But some of it hit my back leg, instantly hardening into a weird, sticky glue.
I am half-stuck.
Oh, this is so not good.
...
I struggled, twisting my leg free just in time to see The Big Gun being primed again.
Oh, hell no.
I threw myself off the counter, hitting the floor and rolling like a tiny stunt double. The janitors were relentless, one of them actually diving after me.
Well, I had to think fast. Need to go somewhere impossible to reach.
Spot. Spot. Spot. Oh.. *Air vent shines.*
Yes. YES!
I launched myself toward it, diving through the slats just as another spray of Anti-Pest 5000 fired off behind me. *sob*
For a second, everything went quiet.
Just the sound of my own sniffy tiny snots and heavy breathing.
I had survived. Again.
This is a time to process as I catch my breath.
Okay, so, a quick recap:
I was almost assassinated by a janitor. I smelled like a crime scene in a citrus grove. I left back leg was still a little sticky, and that was annoying.
But I am alive.
The air vent was cool and dark, the perfect place to regroup. I started moving, keeping close to the edges so I wouldn't make too much noise.
I needed to get far away from the kitchen. Maybe find a nice, cozy spot under a desk in the Oval Office. Eat some important crumbs. Live the dream.
But then…
I heard something weird.
Voices. Not normal voices, either. Excited voices. Scientific voices.
I crept forward, curiosity getting the best of me. I peeked through a grate and saw—
A lab.
A secret, underground, definitely-up-to-no-good lab.
The room was massive. Walls lined with glass cases. Bright screens flickering with data.
And in the middle of it all? A group of doctors in lab coats, surrounding a set of monitors.
The monitors were broadcasting something live.
I squinted.
Were those security camera feeds?
Wait.
That was the kitchen.
Wait.
That is ME.
The screens were playing back footage of his death-defying escape—in real-time. The scientists were watching, rewinding, analyzing.
One of them, an older guy with an evil-looking mustache, pointed at the screen.
"Did you see that? That speed. That durability. We need to capture it immediately."
Another scientist, a woman with thick glasses, adjusted her clipboard.
"We finally have visual proof. The rumors were true. It really does exist."
"What does?" a younger lab assistant asked.
She turned to the screen, where my tiny, heroic form was paused mid-leap—one leg stretched out like I was about to deliver the most dramatic ballet performance of my life, the other tucked in like I had forgotten how legs work. My antennae were flared in what could only be described as a 'regal panic,' and my front limbs were frozen mid-flail, like a roach who had just realized gravity was a thing! If someone added a cape and some dramatic lighting, I could have been mistaken for an insect-sized superhero—if superheroes spent most of their time running for their lives. My eyes wide in sheer determination and my front limbs were curled in an accidental power pose, like a gladiator about to charge into a duel…*shines*
"The Rap Roach."
Oh, HELL.
My antennae shot straight up.
I had just survived the worst janitorial onslaught of my life.
And just like that… I realized I had only been playing on easy mode.