Oh, petty bloodsucker - your sustenance is my pain; your joy is but a bump upon my flesh. Why should it come to this? That such a small fragment of existance should impale itself upon my skin to witness but a scratch of good faith. Yet in your folly, I swat at thee with a hand untethered. Why do you persist, when my reach extends far beyond your bitter end? Should you come forth from sides aplenty I have but five fingers to your none, for which to count the seconds to your sticky demise. 'Tis not for me to decide should you live or die, but you make such a choice with your constant irritation. My retribution is oft swift and fatal.