Ack! I Have Been The Victim Of Evening Preemptive Strikes!

All week, in my sleep, I have been attacked. Violated! Assaulted! There, at my most vulnerable my enemies creep amongst the shadows in my room, slowly they move towards me without making a sound. They are trained assassins of the best breed. They are living stealth. I feel nothing until the morning when I awake to see what damage has been done to my body as I lay in peaceful dreams of a nude Natalie Portman. Like a mad surgeon the work of these beasts is uneven and scattered but evident in the scars. But maybe not. Maybe if I were to connect what has been left behind I would be given the map to great treasure, the first contact of a vast alien civilization or maybe drawing a line from dot to do will reveal a bitchin’ pony! Whatever the case, the damage is strewn about my body! I don’t feel it at first in these early moments of rising. I wake up, wander to the bathroom, flush, look longingly at a pot of coffee, scratch my leg…scratch my leg again…scratch my arm….scratch my shoulder. AHHHHHHHH THE ITCHING!!!! It is as though I have slept not in my bed but in a thatch of poison ivy. What is this? I look down examining my body like a scientist would a new species. I discover I have been scratching a small red bump that resembles a pimple. I flash back to the age of 16 and a horrified lumpy face gazing back at me in a bathroom mirror. No…this was over. I have long since past puberty! Not again! Dear God, not again! But this was not a pimple. Pimples don’t itch, I soon recollected. Another one of these welts appears a few inches away from the first and then one on my finger and another on my chest…no, wait, about three on my chest. A collection of them appear on my left knee and a few more run down both my legs. My shoulder was not spared and even a toe was attacked. These bug bombers showed no mercy. It was the little toe. Poor Lil’ Dew Drop. Hey, you name your toes the way YOU want to know your toes and I’ll name my toes the way I want to name mine. These bore the calling card of the common mosquito, one either using my body as though it were a buffet table or many mosquitoes forming a squadron of attackers. With the accuracy of Junkers Ju-87 Stukkas, these bugs hit their target: Me! I was covered in these bumps, my body war ravaged by attacks I wasn’t even able to defend myself against. I have seen these enemy buzzing around my computer screen at night when I type and I managed to take one or two down but I guess I didn’t eradicate them all. Somewhere, right now, as I type this, the bombers are planing another attack. I look out for them, my hand as steady as a sniper on the trigger of his riffle. My vision is clear and my ire is raised to do some serious damage to these cowardly night stalkers. Are they working for the roaches, I wonder? Paid top dollar to take me out so that the creepy crawlers can claim my fortress as their own? I wouldn’t put it passed those bastards. I try not to scratch my wounds as it only worsens the itch and I don’t want to give the attackers the satisfaction of seeing their work paying off. Nope. You skeeters get no such enjoyment from this soldier. I have battled your type before. More so, I have fought greater advisories. Let me regale of tales of the great Mouse Wars of 2002 as you are slowly dying, crushed under my thumb. The last thing you will hear is me laughing at your demise. As for now, despite the heat, I sleep with clothes on until I can find some proper bug repellent to keep these attackers at bay. These Japanese mosquitoes are a touch larger then what I am used to back home and seem to be smarter. The bugs I know are the runs that just rush you no matter how undefended they leave themselves, how prone they are to counterattack. These Japanese skeeters are thinkers. They hide in the daylight hours and only one of them is seen at night. A scout, perhaps? Then, when their target, meaning me, is totally undefended they swoop and sink their little bloodsuckers into me and feast away like I was a complimentary drink bar. These are crafty Culicidae. But the buffet is closed boys and if I so much as hear a buzz out of one of your squadron brothers I will strike you into oblivion with a mighty clap of my hands. Your mistake was that you didn’t kill me when you had the chance. Like Colbert and bears, you buzzing bastards are on notice!