It makes my heart hurt to see my little man lying next to me listlessly. Breath heavy, cheeks flushed. Those sad eyes only a child can wield.
Itâ€™s only a cold. Itâ€™s only the flu. It should break soon. He should feel better soon. It could be worse.
Iâ€™m sure youâ€™re pretty pleased with yourself right about now. Youâ€™ve managed to maintain the upper hand on the tiny manâ€™s body for upward of 96 hours now. Well arenâ€™t you a big tough bully germ.
Hereâ€™s the deal.
You have no idea who youâ€™re dealing with. No. Idea.
Didnâ€™t your little infectious friends let you know what you were up against? No. I gather they didnâ€™t they? You know why?
Because they are all dead.
Didnâ€™t you ever wonder why they never reported back to base? Because we killed them all. And I hope they suffered.
You couldnâ€™t take down a tiny 2-pounder with your deadly bacteria-infested brethren. You think you can outlast a 28-pound toddler with your pitiful bronchiolitis influenza virus?
The kidâ€™s nickname is Destroy.
Even if you could survive these games long enough to land us in the hospital â€“ what then? We know how to work those monitors like no tomorrow. And I can observe the hell out of my boysâ€™ symptoms.
Iâ€™ve. Got. This. Game.
Face it. There is no good end for you here. I suggest you head out of town in the dead of night.
And tell your friends. It wonâ€™t end wellâ€¦
This is not a threat. This is a statement of fact. This is a declaration of war.