Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Oh (Ant)Man, Not The Bloody Colonialism Again

"Gerald, would you please pass me the pickaxe," said one ant in a top hat with a perfect Received Pronunciation accent to another ant in a top hat. "This is the right way," Victor said, while receiving a pickaxe from Gerald.

Victor adjusted his glasses and looked at a map once again, just to be sure. This party of ants has been digging a tunnel from Europe to Africa for months now.

"Are you sure? If this goes south it is all on you," warned Gerald, as he pointed at Victor and twirled his exquisite mustache. His own mustache, not Victor's. It would be considered improper had Gerald twirled Victor's almost equally exquisite mustache.

"We WANT to go south, Gerald, that's where Africa is. I would appreciate it if you reconsidered your anti-everything attitude," said Victor as he swung his pickaxe at the ground in front of him. It didn't yield much in terms of result though.

They had struggled for a week now after they hit a particularly hard ground.

"Where is young Titus?" asked Victor as he lifted his eyebrows and adjusted his glasses.

"I'm here, sir!" said a very eager young ant, who was sporting a very poor beard and a naïve smile.

"Did you bring the drill? Good lad. I cannot do it with the pickaxe anymore. Do you know how to operate the drill, young ant?"

"Yes, Mr Victor, I know the drill!" he asked and his eyes lit up. This was the moment he's been waiting for. "Oh yeah… Come to papa!" he shouted and nearly charged at the wall.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't be so antsy, young Titus. Stay calm and do it right or we will never make it to Africa," said Victor as he put his hands on Titus' shoulders. Gerald was lightning up a cigarette in the background.

"But Mr Victor! I can't wait for us to have a colony!"

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Trevor The Fly Peacemaker

"Don't do it, Francis!" one fly pleaded to another.

The other fly was waving and pointing a gun at something.

"I have to, Trevor. I'm done with her shit. Every day is the same," he ranted, fuming, intoxicated. "She won't even look at me. All I'm left to do is deal with her crap. At first I didn't mind, I was trying not to get too attached. But now I want something more from her and she... she just doesn't care, the fat cow," said Francis, clearly unhinged when discussing her. She was a real cow.

"If you think killing her will solve anything then you're wrong. I know the place you're in right now stinks. You feel like you're up against a wall. Carrying a disease. I used to be like you. Angry, frustrated, getting shitfaced. But then I opened my eyes. I went places and I was always buzzing to meet someone new," said Trevor, "As we flies say, there's plenty more cows in the fields."

"Is that really true?" asked Francis, as he seemed to calm down a bit. "Do you think I can land someone right for me? Should I just meet new people and see what sticks?"

"You're what... a day old? Still young. You don't have to swat away your dreams, dude," said Trevor, a very wise fly. "I know it hurts right now but the wounds will heal soon. Time flies when you meet someone new. Now put the gun down, Francis."

Francis reluctantly put the gun down, looked at her for the last time, turned around and said,

"Thanks, Trevor. You're a great wingman. I know I can count on you whenever shit hits the fan. What do you say," he started, with a smirk on his face, "let's go visit the neighboring field. I think I saw a fine piece of ass over there," he suggested and they both laughed.

Friday, July 11, 2014

The Morning After (1)

I opened my eyes and waited for the blurriness to wear off. Flickering lights were dancing on my face as if someone with an impish grin on his face was playing with ON/OFF switch. Ouch. "Easy," I gasped. "I'm gonna get ya." When I regained clear vision I realized those were actually sunbeams that managed to get past tree branches. Wind was blowing hard, causing trees to lean back and forth like a drunk on a rocking chair which allowed sunbeams to peek through once in a while contributing greatly to much of my initial annoyance.

I elevated my upper body, using elbows as support, and took a quick look around with my barely functioning eyes. It seemed as if I woke up in a dense forest composed mainly of high pines, with solitary birches growing here and there. There was nothing out of ordinary about the forest. There were trees, and um, forest cover littered with dried and broken branches and pine cones everywhere.

The ground felt a bit damp and my clothes were slightly wet like laundry hanging in the sun for ten minutes. The air was unusually fresh. It must have been raining here not so long ago. I stood up and removed some of the dirt from my clothes. It was just a tip of the iceberg. I looked up to see a jaybird looking at me with a pitiful expression on its cocky bird face. "I don't think I'm at my best look wise. That must have been a rough night," I thought. I haven't had much in terms of last night's events recollection. I decided to try and postpone this issue for the time being. The bird flew away but not before dropping a nice little gift right next to my feet. "Thanks." I said, rather insincerely.

As I was elevating myself to a position that was vaguely similar to the default homo sapiens stance, I felt a surge of pain go through my things and calves. "Whoa," I mumbled as I stumbled onto the nearest tree to stop myself from falling. I hugged the tree like I used to hug a teddy bear when I was a kid.

I didn't drink as much back then, though.

I collected myself after a dozen seconds and proceeded to switch my body to a more distinguish 'hooker-at-a-lamppost' pose. I tried to think how much I would charge for a cheeky handjob, especially with the financial crisis and the ever-weakening dollar, but I had to cast those thoughts away mainly because they were ridiculous. "Come on, man," I reasoned. "If you're not paying for this kinda stuff then you shouldn't charge either. Out of principle. You are a man of principle, aren't you?" There was an awkward silence in my head following that question.

It turned out that attempting to formulate thoughts, however half-witted they were, caused a headache to wake up from its stupor. "Dammit," left my mouth as I grimaced over and over again. "My face will have wrinkles like an old dog's ball sack before I even hit 30 if I keep this up," I thought. My head felt like a wooden plank being nailed to something by a particularly clumsy carpenter.

After a few moments of fighting a losing battle against the pain I went through my pockets to see if I had a phone or at least some painkillers. I had neither of those items which was extremely unfortunate because I had to both contact somebody and get rid of the headache. "Life won't even give me any lemons," I mused philosophically, in what was probably my best moment since waking up on that morning.

Rummaging through pockets didn't yield much in terms of results as I only had spare change in my pants and a piece of baguette in my hoody. My first thought was to buy some water because I was as thirsty as a dry tomato (my face must have looked similar) and also purchase painkillers. Unfortunately, after looking around, checking to be absolutely sure, I was one hundred percent certain there were no shops in my vicinity. It was a forest, after all. I decided to eat the baguette so as not to impair my movements with unnecessary burden. It was stale but it was something. And I was as hungry as a cannibal stranded on an island with no people.

Fueled by those superb nutrients I slowly began to make my way in an unspecified direction. It was there and then that I gathered my first experience in sailing as I was carried and pushed mainly by the wind. Wherever possible I supported myself with trees which I started to consider to be my friends because they were always there for me. "Thanks, trees. You're all invited to my birthday next month. You don't have to bring anything," I said. "There will be a cake and a barbecue and hopefully sun, 'cause that what you trees eat, eh?"

At one point, after wandering aimlessly for some odd twenty minutes, I finally heard something in the distance. I had no idea what it was except that it was a sound. I quickly gathered that there were no other reasonable options but to follow that noise so I began to walk in its general direction. It grew louder and louder and after a few minutes I saw what looked like a huge ball of poo rolled up and left there by a ridiculously large scarab.

The ball of poo started to move. I began approaching it carefully when suddenly I recognized it! That ball of poo was my friend Mark, and the noise he let out was one of his stomach's contents leaving his mouth.

"Mark! Hey, Mark!" I yelled and jogged to him. He somehow managed to pull up his head and looked at me. His face suggested he just left the filming set of a zombie movie after being given a role as an extra. He groaned and growled at me. It freaked me out at first, but as I did not have my sawed-off shotgun with me, I had to try to talk to him.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked as I looked into his red eyes and pale face. I glanced underneath him to see a pool of what was his last night's meal remix that looked like an old, moldy pizza. I hoped he wouldn't fall into it, in case I had to carry him back.

"Wh... huh? R... Rod?" he muttered as his eyes started to register something other than a ground full of vomit. He scratched his head carelessly and with all his strength he flexed his rather wimpy brain muscles and put together a question that pierced right through my mind, placing in doubt my take on philosophy of humanity and existence. "Whe... where is my hat?"

To be continued...