Jack Slink's Untimely Departure From The Land Of The Living

"What happened to the poor bastard?" a woman in a black dress asked a man standing next to her among a crowd of people wearing black clothes.

It was a funeral. A dozen of men and women have gathered around a freshly-dug ditch.  

"They say young Jack 'Slinky' Slink had an accident," he replied, without raising his eyes from the coffin that was being brought inside the cemetery.

"Died of severe head trauma, or something," his friend standing to the right pitched in with further explanation.

"And his intestines got tangled up, or something," a man standing to the left added. 

They haven't said anything else for a few moments. The coffin was being slowly placed inside the ditch by three men – six feet in total. 

"He was reckless, no two ways about it," one of the men said after the pause. "Used to toy with danger. Sooner or later it would catch up with him."

"Nah, I heard he got mixed up in some shady business," another woman approached the conversing group. "You know, drugs and alcohol. I saw him tripping a few times. It finally got to him. He was feeling empty inside, he once told me. He wanted out. Some mobsters chased him down and pushed him down the stairs. He couldn't handle it. They made it look like an accident," she said.

Nobody replied. They didn't know Slinky that well. Most of them only made a passing acquaintance as they saw him rolling up and down the streets, trying to get by. Slinky, a stunt performer, played in many low-key movies where the paycheck wasn't overly fat.

"Pretty ironic he died in spring, huh?" a man offered, to relieve the awkward silence.

"What's ironic about that?" the first woman asked as she adjusted her hat.

"It's Slinky we're talking about here." 

The coffin was finally put inside the ditch. Bruce Springsteen's song stopped playing. The priest said some things nobody listened to and they left, grieving for another half an hour.

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!"

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.