You sent soldiers into my territory, invading my kitchen and making me scream “holy shit!” many times. I, in turn, have responded by killing many of your agents. I do not know if they were your brightest men, but they were certainly some of your biggest and most legged.
This conflict does not need to progress any further. We have both suffered losses – you, of soldiers; me, of dignity – and thus, I would like to propose the following treaty. While I want nothing more than to see an immediate and full withdrawal of all centipedes from my kitchen, I would like to be clear that this treaty is NOT that – it is a compromise. However, if you can think of something I could offer you in order to leave my kitchen permanently – perhaps showing you the entrance to the neighbor's kitchen? – I would do so, gladly.
That said, I am proposing the following based on your current actions:
- All centipedes only come out at night. It's bad enough that I need to check all corners of the kitchen in the evening, I don't want to feel like I need to watch out in the daytime as well.
- All centipedes stay on the wall on the far side from the oven. You do not startle me suddenly there. Also, a couple of you have been on the floor. This is unacceptable and kind of icky.
- I reserve the right to kill any centipede solider I come across. It is, after all, my kitchen, and even if your centipede court would convict me, I am too large to fit inside your courthouse.
- No centipede is to sneak up behind me. Related: if any centipede gets on my person, I will freak.
- If I ever find a live centipede on my designated centipede-slapping magazine, I will consider it an immediate call to war, and I will bug bomb the shit out of you.
Signed:
| __________________ |
| Meg Favreau |
| ___________________ |
| Centipede |



