I'm Going to be a Cowgirl When I Grow Up

It was dark in the bedroom and it had been quiet for a long time. He figured he was safe and took a couple tentative steps. When all looked clear, he ran a little further and stopped to look around. Darn. He had miscalculated. She had seen him. She registered shock at first, then anger. She reached for something hard and heavy. He remained still, hoping to become invisible. Too late, he realized his doom as crash came the side of the circular saw blade on his body.
Stillness. Maybe if she thought he was dead - if she thought she had won, he could wait until she left to run away. His body hurt. He wanted to be back at home, out of this exposed light. She came at him again with the blade. This time, he ran for it, up under the corner of the sheet that was hanging to the floor. She gasped, "Not my sheets!" and shook them - and him- out. He ran. More attack from the blade, and finally back under the dresser from which he had come and again paused, trying futilely to blend into the shadowy darkness. Lights. Footsteps away, then coming back from the other room. A large oval face looking in his hideout. Then he saw it - the Lysol spray bottle. It was aimed directly for him. His stillness now wasn't due to trickery, but fear. A stream of yellow liquid. Pain. He ran, blindly. More sprays of liquid followed his path. He ran, desperate to get away...

And that's when I couldn't find the darn palmetto bug anymore. So here I sit, Lysol at hand, computer in lap, waiting. I dare him to show his nasty, dirty face near my 450 thread count, Italian pima cotton again... I'll be waiting.