A dusty Ford F-150 lumbers up a quiet dead-end road, and pulls sharply into a dirt driveway about three hundred feet up from the corner. Once in the driveway, the driver slams on the brakes. The tires lock up and dig into the dirt, causing a cloud of dust to catch the light breeze.
As the breeze carries the dust cloud into the brush lining the driveway, the doors to the truck open and a man and woman jump out. She is carrying a grocery bag in one hand, the outline of a small rectangular box pressing against the thin plastic. He is carrying nothing but the keys to the truck, and quickly puts them into his pocket.
"This better fucking work." Michael says grumpily, "If it doesn't, I'm going to torch the place."
"This should work. I mean, unless the flea's are radioactive, they shouldn't be able to live through two insect foggers." says The Boss, opening the front door to their apartment.
"Even still. We've been treating both the cat and the entire fucking house for flea's for almost two weeks now. They keep coming back! I'm sick and tired of brushing flea's off of me when I get up in the morning to take a piss."
Michael takes the bag from The Boss, and removes the carton of insect foggers. He begins reading the warning label and instructions for use, shifting every few seconds to brush a flea from his calf, skin, or ankle. "'Effectively kills adult and infant flea's and larvae'. For thirteen bucks, I'd fuckin' hope so."
"Seriously. We'll use two of 'em tomorrow, and if that doesn't work, we'll use the third one in a few days." The Boss says, kicking her flip-flops off into the corner near the door. "And if that doesn't work, then we can torch the place."
As both Michael and The Boss enter the bedroom to change into their pajama's, the cat scratches vigorously at her neck with her left rear leg. She jumps up on the back of the couch and scratches some more, depositing dozens on fleas into the various crevices and canyons between the cushions and pillows.
Unaware of the latest additions to the crumbs and spare change under the cushions, The Boss leaves the bedroom and drops onto the couch. She turns on the television, rapidly switching from channel to channel in search of anything decent to watch. Michael now stands at the kitchen counter, serving ice cream into two mugs with a large spoon.
"I'm beginning to think that the flea's we have are mutant flea's," He says over his shoulder. "For the amount of chemicals we've already tried, and we're still having problems? Unless they have a physician hidden somewhere with vaccines or drugs to counter-act what we're using to kill 'em, I can see no other feasible explanation."
"I know, right? We've given the cat a bath and used flea medication, treated the carpet and the couch with countless sprays and powders. How much more money do we need to spend before this problem gets resolved?"
He hands her her favorite mug, with a more-than-adequate serving of ice cream inside. The Boss blows him a kiss as he sits down next to her. Their conversation drifts from subject to subject as they watch television, and before long the eleven o'clock news is on. After catching the forecast for tomorrow's weather, Michael gets up from the couch and switches off the TV.
Tired and eager for sleep, The Boss puts her empty mug in the sink, visits the bathroom one last time, and climbs into bed. After finishing a tall glass of water, Michael shuts off the kitchen light and heads towards the bedroom. He stops a few steps shy of the door, and turns to face the living room on last time. The darkened room seems strangely foreign, with odd shadows cast from the moon outside obscuring the shapes of its contents.
"Rest well, flea's and various other pests." he mutters under his breath.
"For tomorrow... You die."
Part Three - The Resolution... Tomorrow