Kockroach by Tyler Knox

Kockroach understood immediately what was happening. The little human had given him a form of tribute, a token bespeaking clearly Kockroach’s superior status. He likes the feeling. Hewants more tokens from more humans, more green pieces of paper. The desire for these papers grows almost as large as the other desire that burns in his blood. Almost.

    Now that the little human has given tribute and acknowledged Kockroach’s superior status, Kockroach feels far more comfortable following him out of the building and down the street back toward the seeming center of all human activity.

     

    “So, Jerry Blatta,” says the little human, “what can Mite get for you? Anything. I owes you, palsy. You did a job on Roscoe, you sure did.”

    “Smoke,” says Kockroach. That word, which the little human had taught him, seems to have magical properties.

    “Oh yeah, let’s see.”

    The little human reaches his claw up to Kockroach’s face and takes the white smoking stick from between Kockroach’s teeth. It is now short and stubby, no longer glowing, no longer loosing its noxious burning smell.

    “We need get you more, we do,” says the little human, the human called Mite. “What’s your brand?”

    Blatta points up at the great visage in the sky with the smoke pouring out its fearsome open mouth.

    “Camels it is. You got matches?”

    “I like it dark,” says Kockroach, pulling what seems to be appropriate from his stored inventory of human sounds.

    The little human lets out a loud snort, pats Kockroach on the upper arm, disappears into one of the doorways off the street. Kockroach stares after him but doesn’t dare follow. Heworries for a moment that the little human has left for good. It was a comfort having him close, someone who acknowledged an inferior status to Kockroach and yet was willing to usher him through the bizarre twists and turns of the human world. Kockroach’s smile remains even as he searches with his gaze for the little human. Mite. Of all the humans, his is the only name Kockroach knows. Mite. He wants this Mite to stay near, to guide him through the thickets of this strange new territory.

     

    After many minutes, the human returns. The relief Kockroach feels is both surprising and enjoyable. The little human gives him a small packet with silver at the top. Kockroach stares at it without understanding what it is. The little human takes the packet, rips off the top, taps the bottom so that three of the little white sticks appear. Kockroach takes them all. They are long but without the glowing tips. Still he puts them in his teeth. He tries to give the packet back to the little human, but the human refuses.

    “My growth’s stunted enough, don’t you think? But I got you something else,” says the little human. “A gift.”

    The little human shows him a small shiny thing, golden in color, a thin rectangle with a line running through it. Kockroach peers at it without comprehending its purpose. Then, shockingly, the little human opens the top and spins a little wheel.

    Flame magically appears.

    Kockroach backs away and squeals. The little man stepstoward him, places the fire to the end of the three white sticks. They begin to glow and smoke.

    As Kockroach stands on the street with three smoking white sticks in his teeth, the humans passing him stare. He must seem very powerful with the three sticks, strong with magic. But he grows fearful being noticed like that. He tells himself that from now on, to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he will limit himself to one at a time.

    Even as Kockroach is teaching himself moderation in his new smoking habit, the little human does something marvelous; he closes the top of the magic rectangle and places it in Kockroach’s claw.

    Kockroach rubs the magic rectangle with his digits. “Mite,” he says in a soft, slurry voice. “This is a surprise.”

    “We’re pals, ain’t we, palsy?”

    “You got it, sweet pea.”

    Kockroach opens the