I’ve lived in my third-floor walk-up apartment for two years now, and I’ve never seen so much as an errant spider cross my path. I considered myself lucky, having no intrusion from the vile vermin found in cities despite my building’s age. (There’s a placard on my fire escape that says, "Those who cause encumbrance herein shall incur a fine of $10.")

But on the first day of summer, instead of being greeted by the warm glow of virgin summer sun, I was confronted by a cockroach in my bathtub so large that it defied all my knowledge of the natural world.

For whatever reason, I thought of that short story by Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis (or that story in The Onion). For you non-nerds out there, it’s about a guy who changes into a giant cockroach, freaking out the fam.

Has my roommate Jim finally creeped out one-too-many girls and as a result transformed into a hideous insect? At 7 a.m., looking at a roach the size of my big toe, anything was possible. I had to make sure.

"Jimbo? That you?"

It responded by going on the move, its legs clacking frantically as it scuttled up the side of the tub. All I had were my boxers, so I smashed down on it in one of the most awkward half-naked-hot-water-running-bug-killing experiences I’ve ever had.

I was left alone to clean up the mess, or so I thought. When I returned to the bathroom, 800 paper towels in hand, the bugger was back on the other side of the tub.

Apparently, it had put itself back together like some kind of Transformer. This time a sandal would bring swift justice. I flushed it down the toilet, where it died slow and painfully. Or did it?

As I sit at work dreaming about a shower at my parents’ house, I wonder why our first roach had to be so fierce. Couldn’t they have given me a starter roach? It’s like learning to drive in a formula-one racecar. For god’s sake, we keep a relatively clean apt, we don’t leave out food, none of us conduct radiation experiments in hopes creating a master race of mutant bugs. The size and resilience of this bastard bug brought forth in my mind some pretty frightening scenarios.

Could a horde of gargantuan roaches have been breeding all this time undetected? Was this a scout checking out new territory for his tribe to migrate to? Was this the king claiming this bathtub for Roachland? Or was it just an underling, and even LARGER ones are lying in wait to attack? Could it have been my roommate, who underwent a strange and terrible metamorphosis after saying "what’s up ladies?" one too many times? Where the hell is Jimbo anyway? That roach did have spiky hair.

Turns out big Jim slept through my own personal circle of Hell. But back to business, a counterattack must be planned. Bomb the basement! Poison the wells! Oil the fields! I mean please, Mr. Landlord, sir. Thanks very much. No, it’s not a water-bug, trust me. I’ve seen those before. Can you just send someone please?

Thirty-six hours later, before forces could be mobilized, an intruder ambushes prince Jim. The slithery son come to avenge the father. It fought bravely, almost escaping, but Jim ultimately dispatched it with a mop handle.

The house must be brought to order. I pay an extra $45 for the "heavy duty" cleaning. Starve them out. Leave no ammunition. I’ll be damned if I’ll have my little rent-controlled kingdom taken over by these fire-breathing spawns of Satan. I’ll torch the place and see who burns first. Wait. Can they survive fire? I know the microwave won’t work. Immune to the radiation. Either way, burning alive might relieve the itching I feel 24-hours-a-day now.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Casey, don’t be such I roachaphobe. Well, I’m sorry but this is Casey’s apartment, not your apartment, and it sure as hell isn’t Joe’s Apartment (less hilarious). I may have some little OCD quirks—shower shoes in my own shower, I usually 409 the toilet seat, after I saw poppa roach I washed ALL my clothes—but cleanliness is next to godliness, am I right people? Plus, who knows where Jimbo’s ass has been?

I don’t feel secure at home anymore. I can hear them, behind the walls, plotting their next move in scaly clicks and hisses. If we don’t strike first, Mr. Landlord, my intelligence tells me that they’re getting ready to burst into the War Roo…uh, I mean the Bed Room, sir. We must drop the Bomb in the basement before they bring the apocalypse to our door.

The air conditioner drips on the window sill. A water supply, damnit. Whatever "bombing the basement" actually is better work or its them or me. And from what I’ve read on Wikipedia, it looks like it’s going to be them. I welcome any suggestions—I’m in fear people. If you’ve read this far, help me.

For now, I’ll wait for Bomb to drop, even I have to end up like this guy. It’s either that or laughing all crazy like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. (Jump to 1:30. Now that’s pretty crazy.)