by Jim Tesla -
I really don’t care what they call me: butcher, baker, bug-steak maker. Who’s to say the crunchy carapace I lance and drag for miles isn’t worth it? They who eat its contents and live? Use its remains to make shelter or medicine?
No, they look at their fat little children and thank me. Their fat little children with their spider-hair clothes. If only they knew…
“Tane, bring us more scorpions; higher prices paid.”
“Tane, some government fat ass’ wife wants a caterpillar rug.” A caterpillar rug, for gosh sake?
“When can you get those fire ants, Tane? We hear they’re great marinated and batter-fried.”
And Tane, when will you lasso the Whale Star and drag it down to us? We want a night light to comfort us while we sleep on our soft-pillowed beds.
I’ll lasso your star when justice has been done. And when all you idiots wise up and realize what’s happening here, the corruption of one group and the misplaced trust of another. But why worry about that when you can sit in your staterooms and circle this planet? Your staterooms with private bars and movies, games. Or sit in your protected cities under the sea, the children close by while mama watches—beautiful mama…while beautiful mama watches, with her beautiful blue eyes and silken brown hair…
Why would you worry? We’re the hunters; we’ll find the good deal for you. Count on us to keep the food coming, the food for your healthy fat children, the food for their mama…in your staterooms…
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