My mom's a serial killer

Well, sort of. She doesn't really kill people. She kills mosquitos.

Each evening, armed with an electronic mosquito-killing racket, she goes from room to room swatting at any flying pest that dares to hover in the vicinity.

Her yellow battery-operated machine looks as mild as a badminton racket but is far more lethal -- several volts of electricity frying any wayward mosquito that dares to penetrate its wire mesh.

Am not really sure if my mom likes eliminating them this way. But there is this hint of a smile, almost a sense of achievement when she hits a Steffi Graf forehand, there's a spark and yet another mosquito bites the dust.

I like dogs and cats and don't really like mosquitos but even so, the sight of their carcasses stuck to the racket mesh gives me no special thrill.

I can't even watch television in peace. Mom swoops in, racket held high in her right hand, her eyes scanning the ceiling and walls for any sitting targets. She makes me get up from the couch so she can spot the enemy better -- and she does, there are always some nibbling away at my ankles.

Rest in peace, poor mosquito. Mom will not rest until she gets you, your children and your children's children all in one grave -- the kitchen dustbin.

"Aren't you scared?" I often ask her. "Think of all their souls in one place, plotting how they can avenge their deaths."

"They can send in reinforcements," says Mom. "I don't care."

And she doesn't. She's a professional killer, trained not to show any trace of emotion.

But I am still worried. What about the animal rights activists? Maneka Gandhi, please don't put my mom in prison. I promise I'll make her mend her ways.

Until then, I'll just put up a sign for all the mosquitos out there 'Don't come in here, please. My mom's gonna kill you'.