All is quiet on the cocoa front
They should really call it "Golf", Pennsylvania.
I've never seen a single town with more real estate consumed by golf. Maybe the ants stopped because of all the chances to shoot a couple birdies or something.
I thought it was funny...
We've been travelling for days, and still the only ants we see are dead ants. Most of them squished by car collisions. One or two apparently drowned in large bodies of water. Still no people. The hillbillies are getting restless.
The state roads are too clogged with dead traffic, which forces us to off road it. The company "commander" also decides that moving in a big "J", approaching from the south is the best way to keep some element of surprise. The going is fine until a scout F350 radios back that its spotted movement. We park ourselves and hoof it to the top of a hill.
Six of us stand in a group, passing around a set of binoculars, acting very official. We act official because we don't know how to take what we see.
In the background, there is Hershey Park. Roller Coaster tracks, ferris wheels, the whole bit. In the foreground, the factory, complete with "Hershey Cocoa" written on the grass ahead of the parking lot.
All of this, ALL OF THIS, is crawling with giant ants. They cover both locales like a singlular undulating mass. On top of both areas it looks like they've piled tons and tons of debris in a round bulging mass.
"What are we looking at, bug man?" Asks the Company Commander. He's greying and bears a marine corp tatoo on his arm. The sleeves are torn off his lacket, which I imagine is the original one they gave him, since it has his name on it: Cullpepper.
"We are looking at a nest." I tell him.
"You think?" He says sharply. "What do we do? How do we kill them?"
I think for a second.
"Ants communicate chemically. They literally smell if someone is a friend or enemy."
"So what?"
I think some more.
"So, if we make ourselves smell like the other ants--"
"They'll let us in the front door." Culpepper finishes my sentence.
"Yes, something like that."
"You think so?"
"Well, other than the whole ten feet tall spitting acid thing, they're pretty much like all the ants I know about. I don't know why it wouldn't work."
"And what if they shoot lightning bolts out of thier ass?"
"Then...we all die?"
He chuckles, considers, then asks the obvious question. "How do we make ourselves smell like ants?"
I've never seen a single town with more real estate consumed by golf. Maybe the ants stopped because of all the chances to shoot a couple birdies or something.
I thought it was funny...
We've been travelling for days, and still the only ants we see are dead ants. Most of them squished by car collisions. One or two apparently drowned in large bodies of water. Still no people. The hillbillies are getting restless.
The state roads are too clogged with dead traffic, which forces us to off road it. The company "commander" also decides that moving in a big "J", approaching from the south is the best way to keep some element of surprise. The going is fine until a scout F350 radios back that its spotted movement. We park ourselves and hoof it to the top of a hill.
Six of us stand in a group, passing around a set of binoculars, acting very official. We act official because we don't know how to take what we see.
In the background, there is Hershey Park. Roller Coaster tracks, ferris wheels, the whole bit. In the foreground, the factory, complete with "Hershey Cocoa" written on the grass ahead of the parking lot.
All of this, ALL OF THIS, is crawling with giant ants. They cover both locales like a singlular undulating mass. On top of both areas it looks like they've piled tons and tons of debris in a round bulging mass.
"What are we looking at, bug man?" Asks the Company Commander. He's greying and bears a marine corp tatoo on his arm. The sleeves are torn off his lacket, which I imagine is the original one they gave him, since it has his name on it: Cullpepper.
"We are looking at a nest." I tell him.
"You think?" He says sharply. "What do we do? How do we kill them?"
I think for a second.
"Ants communicate chemically. They literally smell if someone is a friend or enemy."
"So what?"
I think some more.
"So, if we make ourselves smell like the other ants--"
"They'll let us in the front door." Culpepper finishes my sentence.
"Yes, something like that."
"You think so?"
"Well, other than the whole ten feet tall spitting acid thing, they're pretty much like all the ants I know about. I don't know why it wouldn't work."
"And what if they shoot lightning bolts out of thier ass?"
"Then...we all die?"
He chuckles, considers, then asks the obvious question. "How do we make ourselves smell like ants?"
posted by Max Orkin at 2:03 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home