I’ve been poking around on my computer, and decided to post this Blast From My Past. I wrote this under an old net-nick/nom de plume years ago, but the site where it used to be posted no longer exists, so I thought it could use a new home. I’ve broken it up into smaller chapters this time, to make it more easily digestible. Rehashing my original Author’s Note, I know bugs don’t live human lifespans, but in ABL, Cornelius, the old ant, does say “I feel 70 again!” so I’ve taken the artistic liberty of measuring my timeline in years. Also, the idea of Hopper’s scarred eye resulting from an encounter with a bird was from some official source, but I have no idea now where I first heard that.
Update - This should be rated PG, for eventual violence and Grasshopper Mayhem. Just so you know.
Oh, well, enough blather. Here’s Chapter One of the story.
Chapter One
Grasshoppers have a certain reputation. They like to live as comfortably as possible, while doing as little work as possible to get there. Your average country-bred Grasshopper is an agreeable enough fellow, content to bask in the sun and grow fat in the fields. Put a horde of Grasshoppers in a Bugopolis full of their fellow insects, however, and you are asking for trouble. Now, it’s not altogether fair to tar a whole species of insect with one brush; there are Butterflies as venomous as any Spider, and Stink-bugs who are the salt of the earth. But even the most honest Grasshopper has an arrogant streak, and would as soon give you a kick in the head as a hello. And a smart, unscrupulous Grasshopper with ambitions is just about the most dangerous bug there is.
You wouldn’t expect a Grasshopper household to be a cozy, nurturing place, and you wouldn’t expect Grasshopper spouses to carry on like a couple of lovebugs, and you wouldn’t expect Grasshopper parents to be warm and affectionate – but Grasshoppers have feelings, too. Spur and Midge certainly did. Spur was a scam-artist, mostly small time; he could pass himself off as anything from a panhandler with a missing leg to an elegant foreign dignitary. Midge was, for want of a kinder term, a tough broad. She had contacts in every dark alley and seedy hangout, and if you wanted something, she could get it for you – for a price. The two of them had met when Spur was auditioning females to play the role of his wife in a tricky con he had concocted. Midge got the job, and the two of them hit it off so well, they decided to take a crack at the marriage for real. They were nuts about each other.
And they were nuts about their kids. Spur and Midge figured their two little boys were just about the greatest kids any parents ever had. Yep, they were as proud as could be of little Hopper and Molt. Each night, they would tuck the boys into their beds, and tell them a good-night story. More often than not, it was their favorite: The Grasshopper and the Ants. You probably know that story. It’s the one about the carefree Grasshopper, who wanted only to enjoy life and be happy. He spent the summer basking in the sun, eating the grains and grasses of the field, smelling the flowers, singing and playing. Winter came, however, and the poor Grasshopper couldn’t find anything to eat. If he didn’t figure out how to get some food, he would starve. “I know!” said the Grasshopper to himself. “The Ants spent the whole summer picking food; I’ll bet they have plenty to eat. I’ll go and ask them if they can spare a piece of grain or two.” So the Grasshopper went to the Anthill and explained his problem. “Please,” he asked, very nicely, “may I have a piece of grain?” “Forget it,” said the fat, smug Ants. “We gathered that food for ourselves, not for you.” “But, I’m starving!” begged the poor, hungry Grasshopper. “Ha ha ha!” said the cold-hearted Ants. “You should have thought of that before you wasted the whole summer playing.” And the Ants slammed the door on the Grasshopper and left him to starve in the snow.
At this point in the story, Molt, his beady eyes round with horror at the prospect of starvation, would say, “Those Ants were mean!”
And Hopper would say, “Why didn’t the Grasshopper just take the food?”
“He was stupid,” Ma or Pop, whichever was telling the story this time, would explain. “He thought the Ants would feel sorry for him, and just give him the food, to be nice. But, he was wrong. You see, boys, it’s a bug eat bug world out there. If you go through life believing someone’s gonna give you what you need, out of the kindness of their hearts – you’re gonna starve to death. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Hopper would grin, folding his hands behind his head, “he should have just taken the food.”
“By himself?” Ma, or Pop, would challenge. “There were an awful lot of those Ants.”
“He coulda got his brother,” Molt would suggest. “They coulda beat up those Ants together.”
“There you go,” the parent would nod approval. “Molt’s got the right idea.”
“Yeah, but what if your brother’s an idiot?” Hopper would retort, playfully slinging the nearest blunt object at his young sibling’s head.
“Hopper,” Ma would scold, “don’t hit your brother. He’s the best friend you’ve got, remember that.”
And so, young Hopper and Molt grew and flourished in the bosom of their loving family.
That same Fable of the Grasshopper and the Ants with which Spur and Midge educated their sons had been a popular bedtime story amongst the species for generations, so it was no surprise that, over time, the Grasshoppers had begun to stock their own larders by taking advantage of the naturally-industrious Ants. The Ants were puny, easy to frighten, easy to pummel and squish. Better yet, the Ants lived in isolated colonies scattered across the countryside. The Grasshoppers who flew from Anthill to Anthill, collecting their payoffs, were among the few other bugs most of these Ants had ever met. Best of all, the Ants were not given to Thinking. The Grasshoppers of old, never knowing where their next meal would come from, had had to develop cunning. But the Ants, who knew from the day they were born exactly what their lives held, and what their work was, were creatures of habit. And it had now become habit for them to gather food for the Grasshoppers.
Traditionally, the Grasshoppers had gathered with their buddies in loosely formed bands and flown out from whatever spot they called home to harrass the nearest Ant colonies. Forty years ago or so, one of the members of one of these bands from the Bugopolis had been a tough, clever young fellow called Guzzo. Blessed with more ambition than your average Grasshopper, Guzzo had grabbed the reins of leadership and had organized his pals into something he dubbed “The Horde.” There was a method to their mayhem, and they began to expand the range of their Ant Raids, year by year. Guzzo, skilled at keeping both the Ants and his own associates in line, initiated the “Grasshopper Protection Racket,” and raised the extortion of food to a science. By the time Hopper and Molt were growing up, Guzzo had retired from actually going on the annual Ant Raids, but the mere mention of his name was still enough to make an Ant cower. He had expanded his empire of Anthills until it now numbered over a hundred. He was a Grasshopper’s Grasshopper, a genius in the art of Ant Management, a master of manipulation, tough and fearless, to boot. But, he was also the Elder Statesman of Grasshopperdom, and, ruthless as he could be when crossed, he was secure enough in his power to treat his loyal underlings with a certain benevolence. Although Spur and Midge were neither one part of the Horde, they were friendly with its members, and Midge had a reputation among them as someone reliable to do business with. Guzzo knew who they were, and regarded them as model Grasshopper citizens.
Hopper was seventeen when he finally met Guzzo face to face for the first time. It was not under the happiest of circumstances. Hopper’s father, Spur, had decided to take life easy for a while, and had been spending the sunny mornings in the fresh air, panhandling outside some of the nicer bug hotels. When he did this, he would use a clever sling of spider webbing to secure one of his hind legs up behind his wings, so it appeared to be missing from the knee down. With a shabby crutch under one arm, he would hobble up to a likely spot, sit down beside the wall, and beg. It was no way to get rich, but it kept the family fed with a minimum of effort on his part, and he enjoyed lounging about and watching the world go by. He was observing the ongoing construction on the Russell-Stover Hotel across the way, when the new, cookie-tin penthouse being added to the top came loose from its moorings and crashed down into the street below. Bugs scattered in a panic. Spur saw it coming, but, with one leg tied behind his back, he never had a chance to escape.
To be continued…[/b]