Antholes
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
Carlos snorted his blow, John Woo style, two straw her nose. Don’t fuck with Carlos. That’s what his shaky homemade tattoo explains, in mixed case letters. He’s sitting on a major trash of cocaine, genetically modified by award winning scientists straight outta Bogota University. Carlos is like a dragon. He fucks those who have the audacity to take what’s his. Like his trusty machete, he keeps his senses constantly shape with coke. Only one enemy had the balls to fuck with him. Ants. He can hear them all the time, chittering their morse code and perfume language. He sees them, vague phantoms in the corner of his eye, always out of sight. Chittity, chittity. Carlos stops eating lobster and crab because of this.
“You shouldn’t subsidize their compatriots!” he screamed when asked in a seafood restaurant if he wanted the day’s special. He fled the place when he noticed how popular the shrimp cocktail was. Carlos desperately wanted to unfuck the situation with the ants ASAP. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving his coke cave for an extended period of time. Visions of ants carrying off back after bag of his shit made it impossible to sleep. So he stayed with his stash and started to make enquiries. His lieutenants weren’t too helpful, so he put word on the street that he was offering a considerable bonus to anyone that could take him to the ant hill that was threatening business. Money exchanged hands. Ants were not found. Retaliation was swift and feet were removed from those who had the balls to fuck with him. Fuckage was reduced to zero amongst informants.
It was by chance that he found the anthill. He was taking a piss when he noticed an ant patrolling down his arm and onto his wrist. He squashed it, hoping to discourage more from fucking with him. It was after he brushed the carapace from his hand that he had an epiphany and looked at his arm. The hairs on his right stood up on end, and for the first time in his life he realized that it wasn’t covered in course hairs. They were antennae. The insects furiously unburroughed themselves, tearing through the flesh with their terrible mandibles. Soon his pale white arm was an oil slick of black bodies. He removed his machete from his boot and made three quick chops to his arm, removing it from his elbow. He went to the hospital smelling like burnt flesh and kerosene. Cauterizing his stump proved to be harder than he thought. He didn’t want to leave his stash to the ants, but he had no choice. Next time he’d be prepared for them. He told himself, with great powder comes great responsibility.
Carlos snorted his blow, John Woo style, two straw her nose. Don’t fuck with Carlos. That’s what his shaky homemade tattoo explains, in mixed case letters. He’s sitting on a major trash of cocaine, genetically modified by award winning scientists straight outta Bogota University. Carlos is like a dragon. He fucks those who have the audacity to take what’s his. Like his trusty machete, he keeps his senses constantly shape with coke. Only one enemy had the balls to fuck with him. Ants. He can hear them all the time, chittering their morse code and perfume language. He sees them, vague phantoms in the corner of his eye, always out of sight. Chittity, chittity. Carlos stops eating lobster and crab because of this.
“You shouldn’t subsidize their compatriots!” he screamed when asked in a seafood restaurant if he wanted the day’s special. He fled the place when he noticed how popular the shrimp cocktail was. Carlos desperately wanted to unfuck the situation with the ants ASAP. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving his coke cave for an extended period of time. Visions of ants carrying off back after bag of his shit made it impossible to sleep. So he stayed with his stash and started to make enquiries. His lieutenants weren’t too helpful, so he put word on the street that he was offering a considerable bonus to anyone that could take him to the ant hill that was threatening business. Money exchanged hands. Ants were not found. Retaliation was swift and feet were removed from those who had the balls to fuck with him. Fuckage was reduced to zero amongst informants.
It was by chance that he found the anthill. He was taking a piss when he noticed an ant patrolling down his arm and onto his wrist. He squashed it, hoping to discourage more from fucking with him. It was after he brushed the carapace from his hand that he had an epiphany and looked at his arm. The hairs on his right stood up on end, and for the first time in his life he realized that it wasn’t covered in course hairs. They were antennae. The insects furiously unburroughed themselves, tearing through the flesh with their terrible mandibles. Soon his pale white arm was an oil slick of black bodies. He removed his machete from his boot and made three quick chops to his arm, removing it from his elbow. He went to the hospital smelling like burnt flesh and kerosene. Cauterizing his stump proved to be harder than he thought. He didn’t want to leave his stash to the ants, but he had no choice. Next time he’d be prepared for them. He told himself, with great powder comes great responsibility.
posted by Rob at 1:24 p.m.
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