justice.

It was a bad night with regards to scorpions.
Twice I had to jump up and stomp one of those miserable critters to death not having any kind of cutting tool close to me.
And then sweep them up in my dustpan to await further disposal, only when I got ready for that later on, a million ants had appeared from nowhere and were feasting on the carcasses of the stomped-upon scorpions.
Well now, I thought, there is some kind of justice in this, and let the ants have at it.
The next morning all there was left in the dustpan was a pair of pinchers.
Justice, says I. Maybe even poetic justice.