The inspection did not start well...

It was Carrie Bradshaw who saw it first. A fat, succulent, cockroach. Her squeal alerted the Landlord (may he contract prostate cancer and die suppurating).

"Just think of it as a sort of take-home bush-tucker challenge." I almost said.

"Fuck." I said, sotto voce.

What can you say in such circumstances? I am betrayed by the degenerate retard living with me. Who is not supposed to be living with me. So I cannot blame her. And I can't exactly blame the fact that I am out of town nearly 5 days a week either... It belies a certain sort of irresponsibility.

"aaaahaha..." I giggled nervously "An insect from the order Blattodea. Possibly Blattella germanica. A marvellous specimen. I shall have to put it back in my collection, from where it has obviously escaped. Less germs in one of these than the human mouth, you know..."

The carpet in the lounge was apparently stained. Stained by the sort of staining material which makes a stain that is invisible to the naked fucking eye, perceptible only to landlords and TV show look-a-likes. Perhaps they had on contact lenses made of that stuff they use in CSI to detect ejaculate under UV, and the stain was in fact the site of a semi-perpetual penetration of the Flatmate by the local horde of car-thieves.

Perhaps I should have asked them to look at my curtains for me.

The bathroom needed cleaning, apparently. "To gleam is insufficient." That is what was written on Carrie's clipboard, I swear to God.

I was in for another shock when we got to the Flatmate's old room. There was dust everywhere and all sorts of crap on the floor. Old bus tickets, receipts for crap, general kibble. I even found a *ahem* soiled G-string, but this was much later, under the bed. It had formed to the contour of the mattress and was quite rigid. In parts.

Anyway, I got a fairly robust excoriation for the condition of the Habitat. Which was reasonably unfair, but expected from the Landlord (may his balls host a thousand parasites). So I went down to Vox to debrief with Bav.

Because Vox is three letters long, the names of all the staff have to be three letters long too. Bav is the owner. Bob you know about. There's Joe, and Jug and Dāv. Ha ha... no that's total bullshit which I just made up then.

Anyway, Bav, who is a degenerate pig-fucker first class, wasn't there. This bastard looks like a malignant Gandhi. The sort of bloke who likes violence and abhors fairness. His glasses, instead of being innocuously circular are all sharp and elongated. He is rude to his customers, vicious to his staff and engages in date-rape at the birthday parties of his adolescent nieces. His beard gives you the impression that he knows the whereabouts of a cache of kiddy-pr0n and is pretty handy with a box-cutter. Despite these minor character flaws, he is good to know: he is highly knowledgeable about scotch and cigars and stocks some of the very best available.

His advice involved the use of Rohypnol.

Anyway, today's reason I hate my flatmate is fairly bloody obvious: she's a bitch and I hate her and she's crap at cleaning up after herself and she gets me in trouble with the Landlord (may his PA have a Grand mal while fellating him) and she still owes me money and I don't have any Rohypnol and I can't think of any revenge that won't also damage the Habitat and if she doesn't shape up soon I swear to Cthulu that I'm going to stab her in the eye with a shitty stick. And Spathy is dead now too.