Demonstrating to myself how very un-Buddhist I can be, I just smashed a mosquito with ruthless power.
He didn’t stand a chance.
However, as his corpse lies broken on the cold cement floor, his sly, whining ghost still haunts me. Between my palms are the imprints of his three-part death.
The first is dark, shaped like a mosquito. It is where he was initially smashed. The second is a dimmer impression, more gray than black. That is the evidence of what happened when I clapped my hands together a second time, ensuring that he was dead. The third imprint is merely a smudge of gray, the traces of his bloody corpse as I wiped him off my hands.
Mosquitoes be warned: I don’t give a damn about saving your lives!