Prison Camp?

Each month the metallic pounding jolts me out of stage 5. A short second speeds, and I frantically fling on fabric. I know I have 22 seconds before my privacy is ruptured by the impatient authorities. The pounding persists and I hear the clink of key in lock. Shirt on backward, pants unzipped, soul unbuttoned, I stumble to the door just as it is being opened from the grimy outside. "Pest control," blares the little Mexican with surprising abruptness. "Achtung," my bitter humor internally translates, and I stand in military attention beside my doorway. My fellow tenants have also been rousted and look none too happy. Poison man enters with toxic tank, threatens biological life, and leaves with hasty determination. I re-enter my cell, slip back to bed, and fight off fascist chuckles.