Press Pass to the Roach Motel in Translation

After the agency’s thorough investigation into Riva’s background, she finally secured a press pass to the Bite House. She searched the palace, crouched and sniffed all its darkest corners until she begged the roach regime into the light and asked the question she needed an answer to in order to complete her report: “Why?” Louder. “I said, why? Why do you send your young to die in unintelligent wars without a plan to bring them home?” The roaches bared their fangs, but Riva held her ground. “Answer me!” The woman screeched and clawed. That ancient madwoman method actually worked for dear, old Riva. The roaches went into epileptic fits; in the midst of their tantrums, Riva bit their heads off and then used her hands and feet to squash those roaches into the floor. Pressing harder. Pressing. Press! Later, Riva’s husband came home to a devastating mess in their apartment. Today, Riva was a bad housewife. She forgot to do the dishes and used the excuse that she was hunting roaches all day. Her jaw was too sore to deliver the rest of her report, but there was enough evidence that she was telling the truth: white goop dripped from her tight, sticky lips.