Las Vegas: Sin City Wild Life is a story about how we are all in Peril.

Well, I don’t know where you are, but my family is here, although we did live in Cognito, Arizona once. No one ever seemed to recognize us on the street, so we decided to live in Nuendo, New Mexico.

That was okay for awhile, but the people there never said what they meant. Then, we lived in Corrigible, Texas, but those people didn’t know how to behave. Finally, we lived in Cahoots, Utah, but as you’ve probably guessed, people there were always plotting against us.

Eventually, we moved here, and normally, the worst thing we experience, besides 110 degree heat and having to peel our thighs off vinyl seats, is drivers refusing to make a left turn.

These drivers remain rooted behind the line of a turn lane until the signal, which also belongs to the fifteen people idling behind them, has safely changed to yellow and they’ve missed every opportunity to make the turn. The light turns red, as it is wont to do, so the driver shuts off the ignition and decides to live and raise their kids in Turn Lane, NV.  Rent is cheap, and the neighbors are always moving.

This isn’t a story about clueless drivers, though. It is a warning about the increasing danger wild life (and wildlife) is posing to the innocent citizens of Sin City. If the last half of that statement seems like an elegant example of an oxymoron, I can assure you that most forms of wildlife do not know what an oxymoron is. They do know about similes and metaphors though, because life would be one dimensional without them.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I didn’t tell the world my story.

Last night my son went to the store to pick up a few things. On his way home, a cockroach crawled out of the grass nearby and began to follow him.

My son walked faster. The roach increased his pace. He had obviously been stalking my son for some time, otherwise how did he know his victim would be walking past right then? Clearly, he was jonesing for beer and chips, and wasn’t going home without them.

My son, careful not to make eye contact with this guy’s tentacles, or whatever passes for eyes in cockroaches, began to walk even faster. So did the roach. People on the street panicked when the Jaws theme began, and looked frantically around for the Land Shark.

Little did they know a creature no bigger than a quarter would bring about their downfall.

Whistling casually, sweat beading his brow, my son stepped into the street to get away from this six-legged stalker. Nothing daunted, the roach followed him, flicking a switchblade with one of his tentacles. It was a tiny switchblade, but still.

He was bound and determined to take that bottle of Skinny Girl Margarita off my son’s hands. He probably had guests waiting at home, wondering where their host was with the booze.

Wikipedia, my go-to source on all things roach related, which are known to biologists as Blattodea, or The Royal Order of Blattaria–so named for the sound their exoskeletons make when we step on them–says there are 4600 species of cockroaches, of which 30 are associated with human habitats. Out of that 30, say they, 4 are well known as pests.

Are they out of their tiny minds?

I am going to change their entry, because out of those 4600 species, 4600 are pests, especially now that word is doubtless spreading throughout the insect kingdom that roving bands of Blattaria Bandits are intimidating humans into giving up their groceries. The streets of our towns and cities are no longer safe.

A long time ago, I was based for seven years in New York when I flew for Pan Am. Trouble was brewing even then. It is a little known fact that New York City is the capital of the Blattaria Kingdom. That is where their immigrants first land when they arrive in America. There are so many that the Department of Immigration and Pesticides misses them as they crawl off the boat.

Naturalization officers wait at the pier to pass out coupons for a free night’s stay at the Roach Motel, which the Priceline Negotiator, in the person of William Shatner, has arranged for them.

All the others came to our apartment in Queens. Occasionally, we’d set off bug bombs, and come home to thousands of dead cockroaches.

In the killing fields of Jackson Heights there would be a few still alive, crawling over the bodies of the damned and the dead, carrying their Black Flag, filled with resolve to rebuild their kingdom.

When they failed to capture New York, our intrepid settlers moved on.

As they struggled to survive, conquered numerous obstacles and overcame challenges, they became bigger and stronger. Eventually, they settled in Nevada, and invented gambling.

Bugsy Siegel was not just a nickname, y’know.

Rolling dice is easy with four or five hands, and you can work a slot machine with the others.

The one that followed my son was a music aficionado. He was humming under his breath in that creepy way cockroaches do when they follow someone. It’s very off putting. This one was a fan of Michael Jackson.

He hummed “I’ll Be There” as he swaggered along.

You probably thought it was a love song. You couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve always wondered how a person could be more wrong than wrong. But that is neither here nor there.

The lyrics to this song are a cock-stalker’s theme song:

Yada, yada,
‘Build my world of dreams around you,
I’m so glad that I found you.’

Yada, yada some more,

Don’t you know, baby, yeah yeah
I’ll be there, I’ll be there, just call my name, I’ll be there
Just look over your shoulders, honey – ooh

Yada a little here,

Don’t you know, baby, yeah yeah
I’ll be there, I’ll be there’.

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