The Last Wish of Carl the Cockroach

Carl the Cockroach always knew he was different. While his brothers and sisters scurried about in dark corners, Carl had dreams. Big dreams. He didn’t want to just be another cockroach rummaging through crumbs. No, Carl had aspirations of fame, of becoming the first cockroach to conquer the mighty kitchen counter during daylight. It was a dangerous task, but Carl had seen too many horror stories about the Spray. It was said to be instant death.

Today, however, was different. Carl had had enough of his cautious ways. It was a fine morning, the humans still snoozing, and the smell of toast wafted through the air. His antennae twitched with excitement. “Today’s the day,” Carl whispered to himself, psyching up for the big climb. “The counter shall be mine!”

He began the ascent, his tiny legs moving with purpose. The world was his oyster—or perhaps his leftover pizza crust. He could already see the glorious crumbs waiting for him at the top. Half a potato chip, slightly stale, but it looked like it had potential. As he reached the summit of the counter, Carl paused and looked out at the horizon, imagining himself as a brave adventurer discovering new lands.

But then, the nightmare began.

A human had woken up.

And worse—she saw him.

“EW! A COCKROACH!” the human shrieked. “Get the bug spray!”

Carl froze. His worst fear materialized before his very eyes. A giant can appeared, looming over him like some cruel metal god. His life flashed before his eyes—his childhood days hiding in the cabinet, his brief but romantic fling with a lady roach named Greta, his failed attempt at starting a small business in the pantry.

“Wait!” Carl shouted in his mind. “I can explain! I’m not like the others. I’m an intellectual!”

But it was too late.

The human aimed, and with a mighty hiss, the spray erupted from the can like a toxic waterfall. Carl felt it hit him, the cold mist engulfing his tiny body. Panic set in. His legs twitched involuntarily, and he staggered to the edge of the counter, feeling dizzy. His vision blurred, but his spirit was still strong.

“I can’t die like this,” Carl thought, wobbling to keep his balance. “Not on the counter. Not like a common roach!”

Staggering, Carl made a desperate leap onto the fridge, hoping to find safety. But his limbs were sluggish, and he slipped, landing awkwardly on a cereal box. He crawled toward the top, legs trembling, his life force fading.

Carl’s mind raced. He knew his time was short, and the inevitable was coming. But every roach deserved a last wish, right? As he looked up at the ceiling, he made his final wish. Not for fame or glory. Not even for the pizza crust.

“I just want to be remembered as Carl, the roach who tried,” he whispered dramatically, antennae drooping.

And then, with one last heroic twitch of his leg, Carl dramatically rolled over and played dead—because, let’s face it, that was his only defense now.

But the human wasn’t done.

"Oh no, you're not dead yet, you little creep!" she said, coming closer with another spray attack. Carl, feeling a second wave of repellant hit him, knew the end was near.

With a final act of defiance, Carl decided that if he had to go, he was going to do it his way. He mustered every ounce of his strength and rolled back over onto his feet.

"You think you can kill me with a can of spray?!" Carl thought. "I'm a cockroach! We survive nuclear blasts! We—"

And with that, Carl flopped over, one leg twitching in the air.

But Carl didn’t need to worry. Cockroaches are resilient. As the human triumphantly walked away, thinking she had won, Carl slowly, weakly, opened one eye.

"Tomorrow," he muttered to himself, "I’ll try the counter again."

Because Carl wasn’t just any roach. He was Carl the Indestructible.