Social Get In Line - A Social Countdown to The Mandalorian and Grogu

I have decided to post the dramatic conclusion of Batastrophe '14 in here rather than in its usual GIL location. The final installment (please God... please...) will drop in here tomorrow. With pics.

 

I have missed the installments. I have not missed the 30 bats inside my bedroom walls.

 

You asked for it! More importantly… they asked for it!

BATASTROPHE ’14: The Final Chapter – “A Domain of Evil it is. And you must go”.

War is hell. It changes a man. We don’t sleep much anymore. The battles have ended but the conflict will always remain. Every time the house settles and the walls creak, we know it’s them. Each noise which comes from the wall behind our bed is them. It’s always them. It cannot possibly be that the other side of that wall is also a busy intersection. Each car door that slams… every ice cream truck jingle… every rap battle between 2 street MC’s (if you read my Twitter you are familiar with the duo)… every police car or ambulance… all them. Always them.



5 combined months, 1 handcuffing idiotic bat-themed government legislation, 4 attempts at removal and 1 bat-pooping space hookah sticking out of our roof later… and it is over. But, it will never be over. I look back on those times, often. Every time I look at my roof and see that contraption still jutting out of the soffit where 27 bats once entered and exited on a nightly basis, chirping taunts as they spread their wings and flew free. Freedom… at least they experienced it. The rest of us lived in bondage. Prisoners to their lude behavior behind our bedroom wall. And in our bathroom closet. And in our ceiling. Each night, as they hosted their loud orgies of the damned; frolicking and arguing with each other… always, the arguing… the noise. Such noise. "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart”! War changes a man.

Truly, we never wanted them harmed. We love animals, which is why we do not eat any. But, they had to go. Oh, how we tried. From noise machines, to fogging out the walls, to seriously considering shoving an owl into our ceiling to eat them… to professional bat removal, which could not help us due to insane legislation from a clearly insane government. So, we lived with it. And part of us died with it, as well. Only one ever got into the house, proper, and was viciously felled by a pink scooter striking as if mighty Mjolnir. And, only one human casualty was ever suffered but he was merely a professional animal remover so this is how he grows. But, now that the bright red bat-launching roof canon has done its duty, we can move on. We can heal. We can forget.



Except, there was one final trial to be faced. One final battle to be waged. Their Dark Side cave. And I must go. What’s in there…? Only what you take with you… so arm yourself heavily. We knew the day would come. The day of reckoning. The day of investigating just how much they had been wreckin’-ing. I was prepared to encounter anything. All of last summer, and throughout the past 2 months, we acknowledged what was truly happening behind the walls of our otherwise pleasant home. Bat babies being born from all of their batsex and bat carcasses from bat dying and bat crap and bat pee piling up behind the walls. I always knew I would have to go in there and undo what those batstards did.

Much like Scooby and Shaggy entering a haunted house, accompanied only by one small candle, my dog and I entered the crawlspace. Well… except that my dog didn’t go with me. Alone I answered the chirp call. What would I discover? How many bat-mummies? How much toxic-to-humans batcrap? Will there be one, completely insane Old Bat Gunn roaming the innards of my house as though stranded on Treasure Island? Thankfully, these squatters were respectful enough to take their toiletries outside. Respectful to themselves… not us. I admit, I had many moments of vengeful glee imagining the bats, crammed into such a confined area, having no choice but to let rip with their potty while hanging upside down… literally peeing and crapping all over themselves. But, that is not actually how bats do their business, so they took the vast, vast majority of it outdoors. Spreading their wings and crapping onto pedestrians out for a romantic walk on the sidewalk or unleashing their payload into the overpriced lattes of the tourists sitting in one of our countless outdoor cafes.


But, the reality of what awaited me inside of my private hell was so much more. Or less, depending on how we look at it, I suppose. No mountains of bat poop… no rivers of bat pee… no insane, stranded Old Bat Gunn, roaming about and muttering to himself… just their final slight against me. One final battering. Crawling along in the mostly dark chamber of horrors, with only the flashlight beam to guide me, I moved forward. I persevered. I bravely journeyed onward. I mentally-scarringly put my hand down on a few dead bats. I cried. I laughed. I cried. I rocked in the shower. I won. Do you hear me, bats??? I won. I am victorious! I know you are reading this and so I win I win Ialknf ndnkjv…

 

I linked from there. It was about adding an incentive to visit the Slimy Mudhole. I love both equally. I am a social thread polygamist.