Letter of Thanks.

Dear Küchenschaben (cockroaches),

Though most of you are lying on your backs, dead, or in the last ''leg twitching stage'' you bugs go through before death, I wish to thank you. You have done what failed appliances, dirty fridge, and Indian food smudged walls have been unable to do. And let us not discount the horrible smell of bad Indian-cooking stench that pervades my apartment, which can be one of the factors why you moved in, in the first place.

You see, me and you (or is it you and I?) made quite the team. With you showing up underfoot (and under shoe) and me with my incredible talents of mixing just the write amount of fiction to support tendrils of truth, we achieved something neither of us thought possible.

You see, my letters to the landlord seemed to really have upset him too. He has agreed to completely furnish a new kitchen on my behalf. I wish I could say on our behalf, but that would be overdoing the fiction just a tad. I guess that irrascible landlord wants to spray the kitchen with certain chemicals that cockroaches, such as yourself, find quite disagreeable. A side of cyfluthrin with those breadcrumbs just might make you end up stairing at the ceiling as the lights go out. But I empathize, as vodka and Ouzu seem to be doing the same to me lately.

But before those lights finally dim, do you mind doing one more favor for me? Can you show up in the bathroom?

Mit Freundlichen Grußen,
MoSteal