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…
Showing posts with label tane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tane. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Day is Dead
by Jim Tesla -
The day is dead, thought Tane. He’d killed it—routinely and without flinching—like he did every day, every single day that foisted itself upon him now, like a whore set on draining off life. There it lay, the day, exhausted, behind him, a memory of pulses and feelings and at least one big mistake. It was a “one big mistake” that hung there, in his recent memory, hung and wouldn’t let go …
Tane jabbed at the fire, added a log. Some called him a hunter; others, a fool.
Port X was home to him, but no, this was home—volcanoes silhouetted against a yellow-grey horizon, ash puffing under his feet with each forward step, him scrounging for enough water to stay alive, just stay alive. He stroked his gun.
A fire had spread today through a forest not far from here. The crackling had alerted Tane while he slept, the crackling and the high-pitched screams. He’d watched it burn, spear in hand, ready for whatever ran toward him from the trees. He’d gotten three giant beetles and a centipede the size of a python, and taken them to the drop-off point, one at a time. It had taken most of the day.
When he got paid, he’d go to Adagio, not Port X, and buy ammunition. It wasn’t good to be seen in Port X anymore, and it wasn’t good to be without ammo. The hunter was still the hunted—the predator, the prey.
He’d grown more capable and fearless since starting this job, and he nursed a grudge. It was the grudge that set him apart. Like most hunters in this dag-forsaken land, he’d made a few enemies. And he knew how to use a gun.
The day was dead.
The day is dead, thought Tane. He’d killed it—routinely and without flinching—like he did every day, every single day that foisted itself upon him now, like a whore set on draining off life. There it lay, the day, exhausted, behind him, a memory of pulses and feelings and at least one big mistake. It was a “one big mistake” that hung there, in his recent memory, hung and wouldn’t let go …
Tane jabbed at the fire, added a log. Some called him a hunter; others, a fool.
Port X was home to him, but no, this was home—volcanoes silhouetted against a yellow-grey horizon, ash puffing under his feet with each forward step, him scrounging for enough water to stay alive, just stay alive. He stroked his gun.
A fire had spread today through a forest not far from here. The crackling had alerted Tane while he slept, the crackling and the high-pitched screams. He’d watched it burn, spear in hand, ready for whatever ran toward him from the trees. He’d gotten three giant beetles and a centipede the size of a python, and taken them to the drop-off point, one at a time. It had taken most of the day.
When he got paid, he’d go to Adagio, not Port X, and buy ammunition. It wasn’t good to be seen in Port X anymore, and it wasn’t good to be without ammo. The hunter was still the hunted—the predator, the prey.
He’d grown more capable and fearless since starting this job, and he nursed a grudge. It was the grudge that set him apart. Like most hunters in this dag-forsaken land, he’d made a few enemies. And he knew how to use a gun.
The day was dead.
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