Forum.RttP{Anyone else here do any writing? other than song lyrics?}

Sorry I ruined your writer's block thread, Mr. Maggot. I finally read the story you sent me. I dig it. I'm not one to review things, but know that I do indeed dig. And, speaking of writer's block, I'm gonna try the re-working-a-classic idea next time I'm stuck.

Here's a story I just submitted to (hopefully) make some cash:

An Intruding Swarm
by Ben Farley

Although my left hand was free, I was trying to lock my door with just my right. I find myself in similar situations frequently. I finally got the door shut and headed for the back of the shed, which I had just finished making my own. In a rare lull between the stereophonic yelping of neighboring dogs, I heard an obnoxious chewing, coming from somewhere above my head.
I pounded on my newly built walls, assuming there to be a rodent of some sort on the roof. On went the chewing. I went and got my Father to confirm the sound, to make sure I wasn’t hearing things. We stood silent and waited for the everyday neighborhood clamor to shut the fuck up for a second. In that one second it gave us, we both clearly heard the gnawing.
“You said you hit the walls and everything?” my Father asked me, and I confirmed the first part, but not the “everything” because hitting the walls was all I’d done.
“I hope not,” he said, “but it’s probably termites.” Then he went in the house.
I went around to the side of my shack and looked for the approximate parallel to where I sit when inside. I saw there were a few holes chewed out of the wooden eaves, and, on what is apparently instinct in these situations, I banged on the overhang with my hands. All that fell out was what looked like the makings of a bird’s nest, but there’s no bird on Earth I know of that could have squeezed through these holes.
Back in my shed, I grabbed the vacuum cleaner from its corner, plugged in, and put it to each hole around the perimeter of my new quarters. Nothing but bird nest again.
I was putting the vacuum back where it belongs when I felt a crawling on the nape of my neck, and (again, instinct) I swatted in its general direction. It’s always difficult to tell exactly where to scratch when an itch starts in, so I missed my target. I learned what I’d been swinging at when it landed on my forearm and stung the hell out of it.
I killed it then, and it hung from my arm, the dead weight almost pulling me to the ground. It looked like the product of a wasp, a bumble bee and a horsefly’s drunken, inter-genus threesome at the town dump, and, having recently learned of its unceremonious conception, had decided to eat itself to death.
So I was glad to help put it out of its misery, until its fellow colonists came swarming, each at least as big as their dead-weight/dead-kin, who still clung to my arm and slowed my escape.
I counted the welts later on, but I feel no need to disclose the total here. It would be an embarrassing example of my slothdom. At the time, though, the number was enough to spur me to avenge my exterior. Armed with a tree limb and an expired can of wasp spray, I climbed to my roof and provoked a second swarm. I attacked their confines until they showed themselves. I thrashed with all five of my limbs until the buzzing around me ceased, along with it the whole of the neighborhood’s shrieks and howls. This being an unexpected perk, I bowed and thanked my new audience before exiting my rooftop, stage right.
I had succeeded in driving the carpenter bees from above my pillow, but they left behind them a hollowed-out battleground. I intended to fence it off and claim it as my own after a much-needed post-war rest. Before my head hit the pillow, though, the gnawing had picked up right where it’d left off.
I don’t mind it anymore. My one-time-foes have probably carved out a home in these eaves every year since before I was born. There is apparently no ill-will remaining, and in the sudden peace of the neighborhood, my newfound allies sing me to sleep and await their extinction.