"A Grasshopper's Life" - my old ABL fic - COMPLETE

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]

Chapter Two

“Squished in the prime of his life,” the community of Grasshoppers lamented Spur’s death. Midge and the boys took it hard. A bunch of the guys from the Horde took up a collection for the widow, and Guzzo, himself, brought it around. Hopper was awestruck at the gesture. The old gang leader was an impressive sight. Even in his youth, he had never been handsome, and now his rough, brown face was marked with deep, irregular creases. His lower left arm had been maimed at some time, and was useless, so he kept it tucked into his armor in a manner meant to appear distinguished. With his upper right, he shook hands with Hopper, and with Molt, and said to their mother, “He was one of the good ones, Midge.” Still observing Hopper, who was staring at him with round eyes and trying not to look stupid, Guzzo pulled his twisted mouth into a wry smile and said to Midge, “Spur did me a few favors in his time. Maybe I can do one for you. That’s a fine looking son you have. How old is he these days?”
Hopper, on the receiving end of the question, answered hoarsely, “Seventeen.”
“The age of opportunity,” Guzzo nodded wisely. “What are you doing with yourself, son?”
“Uhhh…” Hopper wasn’t sure what to say.
Molt helped him out. “He gets into fights, mostly.”
Guzzo suppressed a chuckle when Hopper glared at his brother. “Does he win?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time!” Molt nodded. “Hoppy’s a real tough guy. I seen him pull a slug right out of his shell. You don’t wanna mess with him.”
“I can see that,” Guzzo grinned, watching Hopper clench his fists and growl at Molt. “Y’know, I can always use another tough guy in my organization. Interested?” he asked Hopper, casually examining his own claws.
The young Grasshopper gaped at him. “Are you kidding?” Hopper burst out with a joyous cackle. “Ma! Did you hear–?”
“I heard,” Ma silenced him with a look. “Guzzo, you and I need to talk about this,” she folded one pair of arms and beckoned to him with a free hand.
“Wait a minute!” Hopper protested, seeing his future slipping away. "He just made me an offer; you can’t – "
“Hopper!” Ma snapped, in her ‘don’t use that tone with me, young man’ voice, and he backed down.
“But, Ma,” he whispered, pleadingly.
“Sit down,” she frowned at him, leading Guzzo out of the room. “You, too, Molt; stay here.”

Hopper sat down just long enough to satisfy his mother, then leapt to his feet and began pacing angrily. “What is she doing!? I can’t believe this – I get the chance of a lifetime, and she’s going to screw it up for me! Argh!” he snarled in frustration.
“Aw, don’t worry, Hop,” Molt tried to reassure him. “Ma knows what’s best.”
“Shut up!”
Apparently, they were making too much noise, because Ma’s voice yelled from the next room, “Knock it off in there!”
“Ooh,” Molt cringed, “now she’s mad. You better do what she says.”
Hopper glared at him. “You know the BEST part about going into the Horde? I don’t have to put up with YOU any more.”

That’s what he thought. But, in the next room, Midge and Guzzo were negotiating.
“Midge, I’m offering your son the opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t stand in his way.”
“All I want is what’s best for my boys,” Midge insisted. “Both of them.” Her voice was quiet, but firm, and she looked Guzzo straight in the eye. “You want Hopper, you take Molt with him. Call it a package deal.”
“Always the haggler,” Guzzo had to chuckle at her posturing. But he shook his head. “Molt’s too young.”
“He’s fifteen. And he’s big for his age. Look,” she pressed, “you want Hopper, and you should have him. Give him a good start, let him learn the ropes, you won’t be able to stop him. He could be a big help to you. He’s a little wild yet, but he’s young, he’ll outgrow that.”
“You don’t have to tell me about Hopper,” Guzzo informed her, lowering his voice in case the boys were eavesdropping. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while; he’s got a big future if he doesn’t get himself killed first. But, Molt…” he shook his head.
“I know, he’s not the brightest Firefly in the field,” Midge had to smile in return. “But he’s a good kid. He’s as loyal as a Tick. Give him some little post to hold; let him guard the grain stores or something. He’ll do all right.”

When Midge and Guzzo came back into the room, Hopper was still stalking around. He stopped to look at them, trying to guess what had happened. They were both smiling. “Boys,” Guzzo beamed, “your mother drives a hard bargain. Welcome to the Horde.” And he held out one of his right hands to each of them.
Hopper latched onto the one he was offered and started shaking it, then stopped. “Wait a minute – you’re taking him?” he pointed with another hand at Molt.
“I’m taking both of you,” Guzzo answered.
"But – " Hopper stammered, “What do you want him for? He’s just a kid. A STUPID kid.”
“Hopper, don’t talk that way about your brother,” said Midge. “If Guzzo’s willing to give him a chance…”
Hopper stared at her, aghast. “You talked him into taking Molt!? I can’t believe this – Ma, he’s just going to mess things up! Look,” he appealed to Guzzo, "trust me, you really don’t want him. He’s an idiot. He eats too much. He – "
“Hopper,” Guzzo put an arm around the kid’s shoulders and drew him aside, “I like you. You’ve got a lot of potential. Learn the ropes, play your cards right, you could end up running your own operation someday. But,” Guzzo looked him in the eye, “that day is not here yet. And if I say your brother’s in, he’s in.” Hopper pressed his mouth shut and sighed. Guzzo patted his back and whispered, “Hey, it’s a big organization; maybe you won’t see him again.”
But, Hopper already knew that he would never get that lucky.

Chapter Three

Hopper and Molt started out on the ground floor of the Horde. They were both too young and too new to the game to be sent on the collection rounds their first season. Even with his hot temper, Hopper could be charming when he felt like it, and his desire to belong in the gang made him try to ingratiate himself with his new comrades. Well… most of them.

The Horde had its own hangout, an unofficial Private Club for members only. Hopper had ventured in for the first time, and was standing at the bar, trying to survey the room without gawking. Two Grasshoppers, neither much older than he was, sauntered up to him.
“Hiya,” said the short one.
“Hi,” Hopper answered warily.
“You’re Spur’s kid, aren’t you?” asked the other, who was about Hopper’s height, but chunkier.
“I’m Hopper,” he informed them, in a tone that said he didn’t like being called a kid.
They gave no sign of being offended. “I’m Gip, he’s Ratchet,” said the chunky one. “Whatcha drinkin’?”
“Nothing, yet,” Hopper began to warm up toward the good-natured duo.
“We’ll take care of that,” Ratchet grinned, with a rap on the bar. The bartender rolled three amber-colored drops their way.
“Welcome to the Horde,” Gip raised his drink to their new friend, and Hopper thanked him.
“Hey, Hoppy!” Molt pushed his way up to them. He had a sticky pink blob in each of two hands. “Look, they got ice cream!”
Hopper frowned at him. “Get lost.”
Molt ignored him. “Mmm, strawberry,” he waved the stuff temptingly in front of his brother’s face, “your favorite.”
“I said beat it!” Hopper hissed at him.
Gip and Ratchet were chuckling. “Who’s your shadow?”
“Aw, he’s my kid brother. Ignore him, maybe he’ll go away.”
“Heh heh,” Molt laughed, scarfing down both handfuls of ice cream, “Hoppy’s a real kidder. He’s got a great sense of humor.”
Hopper was fuming, but Ratchet gave him a pat on the back and said, “Hey, don’t feel bad. I got a kid sister. You wanna talk about a pest!”
“Uh-oh,” Gip suddenly whispered, looking toward the entrance. “C’mon,” he gave his buddy a shove, “let’s move. C’mon, Hop,” he nudged his new friend, as well.
“What?” Hopper turned to see what the problem was. All he saw was a tall, skinny Grasshopper, maybe a couple of years older than his new pals, who had come into the bar.
“Oh, great,” Ratchet saw him as well, and groaned. “Yeah, let’s blend. Maybe he won’t notice us. You, too, kid,” he nudged Molt.
“I’m gonna get some more ice cream,” the oblivious Molt waved for them to go on without him, and stepped up to the bar.
Ratchet started to insist, but Hopper said, “Aw, leave him. What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“You see that guy?” Gip indicated the skinny Grasshopper.
“Yeah, so what?” Hopper shrugged.
“So what!?” Ratchet exclaimed under his breath. “He’d just as soon squish you as look at you, that’s what.”
“Yeah,” whispered Gip, “I heard he killed about a dozen Ants his first year out.”
“I heard twenty.”
“Ants,” Hopper snorted, unimpressed.
“Look,” Ratchet warned him, “you wanna laugh, go right ahead. But he’s meaner than a bunch of hornets. I’m tellin’ you, pal, you don’t wanna mess with him.”
Gip and Ratchet had drawn Hopper over to an out of the way table, but Hopper didn’t sit. He watched, as the tough Grasshopper crossed the room. Molt was apparently standing in his spot, because he grabbed hold of the kid and turned him around. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, hiya,” Molt grinned stupidly at him. “I was just getting some–”
“Get out of my way,” the Grasshopper twisted a couple of Molt’s arms behind him and shoved him against the bar.
“Ow, hey!” Molt exclaimed. “Hoppy!” he appealed to his brother. Hopper was already on the way. His new friends tried to hold him back, but he shoved them aside, muttering, “Ma’ll kill me if anything happens to him.”
“Owwww!” Molt was wailing, “Hey, leggo, you’re breakin’ my arms! Ow! Hopper!” he called for help again.
Molt’s big brother stalked up to the skinny Grasshopper and pried him off. “Look, tough guy, nobody beats up on my kid brother but ME.”
The Grasshopper scowled at the interruption, then realized that a scaly chunk of Molt’s exoskeleton had come away in his hand. “What the-- Eww!” he made a disgusted face.
“I’m moltin’,” the growing boy explained meekly, and added, in a feeble attempt to be humorous, “That’s why they call me Molt.”
“Oh, yeah?” the Grasshopper snarled. He hauled off and gave Molt a sock in the jaw that sent him staggering. “Well, I’m thumpin’,” he sneered. “That’s why they call me Thumper.”
“Thumper,” Hopper snorted and chuckled. “What kind of a name is that? Sounds like a name for a Cricket.”
He made the mistake of turning away to grab Molt and haul him back to the table. Thumper’s clawed foot lashed out and caught Hopper in the back, knocking him flat. With a growl, Hopper leapt up and tackled him. The two of them wrestled on the floor, kicking and clawing at each other, while a circle of Grasshoppers gathered to watch. Thumper got the upper hand and held down his panting opponent, shoving his spiked forearm under Hopper’s chin. “Let me explain something to you, Hoppy. Sooner or later, you’re going to be working for ME. So, you still think I’m a Cricket? Huh?”
“No,” Hopper rasped, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not a Cricket.”
“What?” Thumper inclined his head tauntingly. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You’re not a Cricket,” Hopper spoke up, and waited until Thumper, gloating, relaxed the pressure of his arm. Hopper grinned, “You’re a Flea,” and spat in Thumper’s eye.
Thumper screamed at the insult, and screamed louder when Hopper drove a knee into his abdomen and threw him off. With a sudden beating of wings and a brief scuffle, Hopper flipped Thumper face down on the floor and pinned all four of his arms behind him. “Let me explain something to YOU, Thumpy.” Hopper smiled his most charming smile. “Sooner or later, these guys are going to be working for me,” he indicated his comrades. “But you won’t be. Because I wouldn’t have a TERMITE,” (he gave Thumper’s head a nice thump on the floor) “like you IN my gang. I would rather have my brother the DOLT in my gang than you.”
“Aw, gee, thanks Hoppy,” said Molt, who was among the spectators.
“Shut up,” said Hopper, then he laughed a little and remarked to Thumper, “And you can see how much respect I have for him. Get up,” he got to his feet, dragging Thumper with him. “And think twice,” he twisted Thumper’s arms and got a satisfying whimper out of him, “before you kick me in the back again.”

What the heck? Seriously! Why I haven’t noticed this before? This story is soooooo good! Wondered why no people reply to it? This is good, BETTER! Though it’s not good as Muntz’s (okay, I’m a little bit biased) but hey, this is quite masterpiece. Can’t wait for more then! This will open up my mind about grasshopper’s life in the movie. Guess they aren’t bad as they use to.

Thanks, chef! I appreciate your comments. Just for that, I think I’ll go ahead and post the next chapter. And, oh, Hopper is still a very bad Grasshopper, as you will see!

Chapter Four

Word of the fight spread quickly, and it won Hopper a few more friends among the junior members who had been bullied by Thumper. It was not the last scuffle between the two rivals, however, and after one brawl too many, Guzzo called them in.
“I don’t respond well to my boys getting squished,” he explained himself calmly. “Especially when it’s my boys doing the squishing. It’s not good for business. You don’t like each other? Fine. But as long as you both work for me, you’re going to learn to tolerate each other.” He regarded them with his most deadly look. “If either of you deprives me of the other’s services, I will not be a happy insect. Do I make myself clear to you?”

And so an uneasy truce was enforced between the two young hotheads. Guzzo did his part in trying to keep them away from each other. He had several senior lieutenants who now supervised the yearly collection rounds, and he assigned Hopper to the band led by Stilt. Stilt was an old hand at the Ant biz, with a gentlemanly manner and a wry sense of humor. He had a particular talent for initiating the younger members into the ways of the Horde. Thumper had gone out with his gang for his first season of collecting, and Stilt had come back insisting that one of the other lieutenants be saddled with him next season. The kid was just too eager to squish the Ants. He got a real kick out of it, said Stilt. Not that any of the Grasshoppers felt sorry for the Ants, but, as Stilt explained to Hopper, the Ants were a commodity. “We need the Ants to pick food. Doesn’t matter how hard you push 'em, an Ant can only gather so much. The more Ants you have, the more food you get. You start squishing – voila, fewer ants, less food.” He pointed a finger at Hopper and laid out his philosophy. “Always keep the Ants thinking you’re about to squish them. But do the actual squishing judiciously.”

Starting with his second season in the Horde, Hopper began to go on the collection rounds. He loved it. Watching the Ants scatter in panic at their approach, dive-bombing them, tossing them around – man, this was what being a Grasshopper was all about! And he loved watching Stilt at work. The old Grasshopper was a cool, calculating manipulator, and Hopper would just stand and watch in awe as Stilt paced on his long legs among the Ants, surveying them in silence as they shrank from him. Someday, he thought to himself, that’s gonna be me…

Collection season ran through the summer, but when winter came, and all the food had been divided up, many of the gang members went south for a few months, to spend the off-season relaxing in the sun. Guzzo and all of his senior staff had winter homes to go to, and they would invite their favorite subordinates to come along. Hopper had always hated winter, and got a real kick out of lounging around the sunny resorts. Molt, on the other hand, got homesick easily, and spent the winters with Ma. The two brothers had spent six seasons in the Horde before the winter that Midge got sick. Hopper had gone south with Stilt’s gang at the first sign of cold weather, and didn’t know anything was wrong until Molt came to fetch him.
“It’s Ma,” he had explained. “She’s real bad; I don’t think she’s gonna make it. Hoppy, I’m scared.”
For maybe the first time in their lives, Hopper felt a twinge of affection for his baby brother. “Come on,” he patted Molt’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” He explained matters to Stilt, and then flew home.

Midge was in a bad way. When Hopper arrived, she raised herself from the pillows and opened her arms to him. He sat down on the bed and let her hug him.
“What’s the big idea, Ma?” he tried to tease her. “You’re scaring Molt.”
“Oh, Hopper,” she squeezed her baby and took his face in her hands, “it’s so good to see you. You’re getting so handsome,” she fussed over him. “You look more like your father every day, do you know that?”
“Ma,” he took her hands away from his face but held onto them, “what’s the big deal? I haven’t been gone two months; you make it sound like you haven’t seen me in years.”
“Molt,” she looked around, ignoring him. “Where’s Molt?”
“I’m here, Ma,” he plopped down on the opposite side of the bed.
“My babies,” she collected hands from both of them in all four of hers. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Ma, I mean it,” Hopper began to squirm a little. “Knock it off. You’re making Molt cry.”
“I’m not crying,” said Molt.
“Shut up,” said Hopper, a bit thickly.
“I want you to promise me something,” she squeezed their hands.
“Anything, Ma,” said Molt.
“Both of you,” she was looking at Hopper.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Promise me you’ll always look after each other. Sometimes I think you don’t know how lucky you are to have a brother,” she was looking at Hopper as she said this. “You two are family, and family has to stick together. Whatever the rest of the world throws at you, you’ll always have each other. Remember that.”
“Don’t worry, Ma,” Molt was getting damp-eyed now. “We’ll stick together, no matter what. I won’t let Hopper out of my sight.”
Hopper growled in his throat at this and gave Molt a shove. “Great.”
“Hopper,” Midge snapped, with a sudden flash of her old fire, “I want you to promise me right now that you won’t ever kill your brother.”
“Aw, Ma,” Molt put in, "you don’t have to do that. Hoppy wouldn’t – "
“Shut up!” Midge and Hopper barked at him in unison. “Hopper,” she repeated, in her tough voice, “promise me.”
He frowned at his brother for a moment, but he looked at his mother and sighed. “All right. I promise. I won’t kill Molt.”
Two days later, Midge died.

Hopper loved his mother. Perhaps even more amazingly, he respected her. A promise to her was a promise to keep. But, that didn’t mean it was going to be easy. Especially not after what happened the next summer.

Chapter Five

Stilt’s portion of the Horde was collecting food from the Anthills that made up their territory. Hopper and Molt were both part of his gang. Traditionally, the Grasshoppers would land at the Ant colony, gorge themselves on the waiting food, lounge in the sun for the rest of the day, push a few Ants around, then pack up the leftover food to take with them. The gang was big enough that Stilt would dispatch four or five Grasshoppers to haul the extra food back to headquarters, while he took the rest of them on to the next Anthill. On this particular Raid, at this particular Anthill, Stilt put Hopper in charge of taking home the leftovers. Molt, Gip and Ratchet were put under his command. They rigged up the usual harness to carry the leaf full of grain between them, and flew off in formation.

They were halfway home when Molt began to complain that his harness wasn’t holding. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of wings, and Hopper’s immediate reaction, as usual, was to tell him to shut up.
“No, I mean it, Hopper, I’m comin’ apart here!” Molt clutched at the stems wrapped around his midsection, and tried to hold his edge of the leaf. “We gotta land!”
Hopper yelled at him to just hang on and fly. He was bent on getting back to base and dumping the food, so they could catch up to the gang before they hit the next Anthill. There was only so much Molt could do, however, and, a minute later, he lost his harness and his hold, and grain began spilling out of his corner of the leaf.
“MOLT!” Hopper yelled at him, as he and the other two Grasshoppers paused and hovered, trying to stop the leak.
“Don’t worry, Hopper!” Molt took off after the falling grain. “I’ll get it…”
“Molt, come back here, you— ARGH!” Hopper railed. There was nothing to do but land, and most of the grain made it down before the Grasshoppers did. Hopper found his brother running around and gathering the scattered kernels in his hands. So far, he had managed to pick up five. Hopper knocked the grain from his hands and threw him against the nearest tree root.
“Do you realize what you have just done?” he asked, in that tone of forced calm that always meant there was a storm coming.
“Hopper, I tried to tell you–” Molt protested.
“You are going to pick up every last bit of that food, by yourself, with your own four hands, if it takes all night. Do you understand me?”
“H- Hop - Hopper…” Molt gulped.
“I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses, just DO IT!”
"But - but - Hop - " Molt, his eyes round with terror, pointed up and over Hopper’s head.
Hopper turned around. In the instant before everything went dark around him, he had just enough time to register the single, panic-stricken thought: BIRD!

Molt scrambled backward over the tree root. The Blue Jay had taken Hopper head first and was having a hard time gobbling him down. His hindquarters sticking out of the bird’s mouth, Hopper kicked frantically with his powerful legs. He tore at the Blue Jay’s gullet with his claws, and his spiked forearms, fighting to push himself back out. Molt cowered behind the root and watched in horror as his doomed brother screamed and struggled. Poor Hoppy! he shuddered. What a way to go.

It is amazing, how your survival instincts kick in when you’re staring down the digestive tract of a big, hungry bird. Hopper, fueled by a panic-induced adrenalin rush he could never have explained or recreated afterward, wrestled his way back out of the Blue Jay’s mouth, beating his crumpled wings in an attempt to fly to safety. The Blue Jay, robbed of his dinner, snapped at the Grasshopper before he could get clear. Hopper screamed in pain as the bird’s sharp beak caught him just above the right eye and ripped a gash in his face. His wings managed to carry him as far as a thick tangle of plant growth at the base of the tree, and he hid himself, clutching his wounded eye. The Blue Jay expressed some curiosity as to where he had gone, but a chattering squirrel in the tree startled the bird away, and Hopper collapsed, exhausted and shaking, and felt around for some moss with which to bandage his torn face.

“Hopper! Hopper!” Molt came running, Gip and Ratchet close behind. “You’re alive!” Molt threw himself on his brother, who groaned in pain and pushed him off. “Oh, wow, that was amazing! I’ve never seen anyone survive nearly being eaten by a bird before!”
Hopper didn’t even have the strength left to hit him. “Just go get the food,” he croaked.
Molt and the other two Grasshoppers started off to collect the grain, but stopped before they had gone five paces. “Uh, Hopper… We got a problem,” Molt murmured. A flock of sparrows had gathered where the grain had fallen, and a noisy, feathery picnic was underway. Hopper took one look at the mob of birds and fell back on the grass with a grunt of despair.

Stilt was not happy. “Where’s my food, Hopper?” he asked, upon hearing what had happened. “I put you in charge of three guys, give you a simple job to do, and you let me down.”
“It wasn’t my fault, it was my idiot brother, he–”
“First rule of leadership,” Stilt held up a hand to silence him. “Everything is your fault.” The older Grasshopper frowned at the younger one, but, observing Hopper’s cloudy eye and the nasty gash that marked his brow and cheek, Stilt’s scowl faded, and he clapped Hopper on the shoulder. “Remember that.”

It was a couple of years later that Guzzo gathered all of his lieutenants at his winter home for a meeting. He had decided to retire. The Horde had grown too big, it was too much work to manage, and, being a Grasshopper, he hated work. “It’s no fun anymore,” he lamented. “Not like the good old days, when you just grabbed a bunch of your pals and went looking for food.” So, Guzzo, as a last chore before retirement, had worked out a plan to split up the gang. Each of the seven lieutenants would have twelve Anthills. And there would be six Anthills each for five promising, younger members of the Horde, to give them a start in life. Hopper was one of the five. Thumper was another.

To be continued…

Chapter Six

Hopper was on top of the world. He had six Anthills to call his own, and Guzzo had said that he could take anyone from the Horde who wanted to go with him. He was stuck with Molt, of course; he had given up expecting to get out of that. But, he had another dozen chums or so, including his pals, Gip and Ratchet, all eager young toughs like himself, who were ready to follow his lead. His six Anthills were a good long haul from the Bugopolis. The farthest out was a colony known as Ant Island.

Guzzo had the Ants so well trained, Hopper’s new management went off without a hitch. He had visited Ant Island plenty of times before, as a member of Stilt’s gang, and it was a real plum. The Queen was a shriveled up old dame who never gave them any trouble, and her only daughter was just a scrawny kid. He didn’t think any of the Ants had ever even thought of leaving the Island, and their ignorance only played into the hold he had over them. There were very few thrills in his life to compare to the thrill of the moment when he first stalked, slowly and silently, as his mentor Stilt had done, among his own personal throng of Ants, and watched them shrink from him in fear. “Heh heh,” thought Hopper. “This is the life…”

For two seasons Hopper’s life was just about as perfect as it ever had been or ever would be. Collections ran smoothly, the Gang was happy and having fun, and he had his own winter resort, South of the Border in a wooden orange crate. It wasn’t until Hopper’s Gang went out on their first raid of their third season that the trouble began.

As they approached Anthill #1, they could see the Ants out working. But, their Offering Stone was empty. The Ants were carrying all the food underground, into their own stores. At the sound of the approaching Grasshoppers, the Ants did not dash single-file into their bunker in their usual, practiced manner. They appeared confused, some running for their lives, some looking up and pointing as if they had never seen a Grasshopper before and couldn’t figure out what they were doing there. They still had sense enough to scatter when Hopper and his crew landed in their midst, but he could see tiny heads and eyes peeping out from behind every leaf and rock. Someone had fetched the Queen. She was a round, mild-looking Ant, and her Council trailed nervously behind her as she approached him.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, in a conciliatory tone.
“Where’s my food?” he demanded.
The Queen and Council looked at each other in confusion. “You have your food,” said the Queen.
“Excuse me?” fumed Hopper. “I don’t see any food. Let’s look together, shall we?” he seized the Queen’s arm and dragged her toward the Offering Stone.
“You’ve already taken it!” she insisted, her voice shaking. "I’m sorry if it wasn’t enough, but it was all we had gathered – "
Hopper stopped in his tracks and scowled at her. “When was this?”
“A week ago,” she answered, surprised at the question. “We didn’t expect you to come so early this season…”
“Look at me,” he held her under the chin with one claw. “Take a good look.” He shoved his face down toward hers, making sure she couldn’t help but notice his scarred eye. “Was I here last week? Did you, personally, see ME, last week?”
Cringing at the sight of him, she weakly shook her head no. With a growl, he threw her down. Two of her Councillors ran to her aid. A third approached Hopper and fell to his knees. “Please, we’ve done everything you asked. We don’t want trouble with you. No more squishing, please. If the food isn’t enough, we’ll gather more.”
Eyes widening with a sudden flash of suspicion, Hopper hauled the cowering Ant to his feet. “The Grasshoppers who came last week – how many Ants did they squish?”
The Queen raised her head, and Hopper saw an alarming glint of anger in her eyes. It was tiny, and she tried to hide it, but it was there. “Seventeen,” she told him.
“Why?” his eyelids flickered as the realization took shape in his brain.
“I don’t know why. Because they felt like it.”
Hopper observed the Queen closely. She was still afraid of him, she gave no hint of being prepared to defy him, but she was as angry as he had ever seen any Ant. That, he brooded, was why Stilt had taught him to be judicious in his squishing of them. “The Grasshopper in charge – Who was he?” Hopper asked her, quietly. “Answer me, and no one else gets hurt.”
The Queen clearly did not know whether she could trust him, but she had no choice. “I think they called him Thumper.”
Hopper drew a deep breath. Folding his arms behind his back, he paced among the Ants. “Take a good look at my face,” he raised his voice so they could all hear him. “My name is Hopper. You work for ME. The food you gather is MINE. I do NOT want to come here again and find that you have given MY food to ANOTHER bunch of Grasshoppers. Do you understand me?” He waited while a murmur of agreement went through the trembling throng of Ants. All the while he was stalking among them, Hopper was considering his position. To be perceived as ‘going soft’ would be fatal, but he needed the Ants’ loyalty. If they were forced to choose between him and Thumper, he wanted to be the lesser of the two evils. “Now, just to prove how FAIR I can be, I’m going chalk this up to a simple misunderstanding, and I’m going to give you another month to get me some more food. Make me happy, and we’re even for this season. We’ll call it a Learning Experience. But, if this MISTAKE is ever repeated, squishing will be NOTHING compared to what I will do to you. Are we all clear on that point?”
Another affirmative murmur passed among the Ants. Satisfied, Hopper yelled, “Let’s ride!” and he and his Gang took off for the next Anthill.

Thumper’s gang had been here, too. Hopper reamed out this colony of Ants as he had the first, and roared off to Anthill #3. This time, the rival gang had beaten him by only a day. Hopper’s chain of Anthills made a long curve, counter-clockwise, moving away from the Bugopolis. Numbers 1, 2 and 3 were the closest to Thumper’s adjoining turf to the east. The other three trailed away to the north and west, with Ant Island the farthest out. After a brief stop to give orders to his followers, Hopper and the gang took off for the remaining colonies. These were still undisturbed. As soon as they hit each one, a team of Grasshoppers loaded up the leaf full of food and hauled it South, without stopping to eat any of it first. Hopper took the rest of the gang into the bunker, confronted the Ants, and read them the same rules about not giving his food to any other Grasshoppers, or else. A short foray back to the first three colonies, to collect whatever payoffs they had gathered in the meantime, and to remind them who was boss, and the Collection Season was over. Hopper was not a happy insect.

Chapter Seven

He had enough food, that wasn’t the problem. The gang numbered only fifteen or so, and there would still be plenty to get them through the winter. But, if Thumper thought he was going to get away with raiding Hopper’s Anthills and squishing Hopper’s Ants…

To his advantage, he had his gang behind him, and they were ready to attack Thumper’s winter hideout and beat up on their rivals. But Hopper didn’t like this; he had no idea how large Thumper’s gang had grown, and he couldn’t afford to lose too many of his own band. Hopper wanted to get rid of Thumper personally, and for that, he was going to need a plan.

Halfway into winter, inspiration walked into his arms. Two Mosquitoes came calling. Thumper had dispatched them as messengers, instead of his own Grasshoppers, assuming that whomever he sent would be squished on sight. The message was brief. Figuring that Hopper, deprived of the profits of half his Anthills, would be getting hungry about now, Thumper was ready to negotiate the terms of Hopper’s surrender.

Molt, who was a pretty good bully when his opponent was less than half his size, grabbed the Mosquitoes by their needle noses and said, “You go back and tell your boss that my brother doesn’t surrender to anybody. We don’t need Thumper, we got enough food for TWO winters-- OWW!” he yelped as Hopper yanked him away by his antennae.
“Stay out of this,” Hopper hissed at him, shoving him out of the way. “Look, boys,” he regarded the Mosquitoes with an oily smile, “I’m a reasonable insect, but I’m not going to negotiate with a couple of Gnats. You tell Thumper that when he’s ready to show me a little respect, then we’ll talk. Now, beat it. Scram. Hasta la vista.”
The Mosquitoes, buzzing between themselves, zipped away.
Hopper was grinning as he regarded his comrades. “Now let’s see what he does.”

A week later, a couple of Grasshoppers from Thumper’s gang showed up. They went by the names of Axle and Loco, and they were both pretty young, Hopper noted. Expendable. Thumper obviously didn’t trust him yet. Hopper played the genial host and welcomed the two kids to his home. The problem with their youth was that they had been given no leeway to make decisions. Thumper wanted Hopper to show up at his hideout with no more than two other Grasshoppers; then they would talk.
“Boys,” Hopper protested, “do you think I’m stupid? If you were in my place, would you walk into the middle of Thumper’s gang with nothing but two guys behind you?” He shook his head. “Tell him I’m interested, but I want a neutral site. And no more than two guys with him, either. I’m sure he wants this to be fair.”
The two young Grasshoppers, a little surprised that they hadn’t been squished out of hand, ran home with Hopper’s offer. And Hopper waited.

This time, the reply took less than a week. Axle and Loco came back. They had a neutral site that was agreeable to Thumper, and informed Hopper that all he had to do was say when. Thumper had even agreed to the “two guys” rule. Hopper considered the offer for a minute, then confided to his visitors, “I need some time. Some of the guys still think we can make it through the winter on what we have. Maybe they’re right, but…” Hopper shook his head dubiously. “Now, I know Thumper’s not going to deal with me if I can’t bring the whole gang over. The way I see it, once they go hungry for a couple of weeks, they’ll be more cooperative. Two weeks, that’s what I need. Tell him I’ll meet with him then.”
Axle and Loco thought Thumper would agree to this, and flew home. They thought they were pretty sharp, persuading Hopper to surrender like that. This was gonna be good.

Two weeks. In the morning, Hopper pulled up stakes and led the gang back to the Bugopolis. It was cold and damp, but everything else he needed to carry out his plan was there. Besides, he didn’t trust Thumper not to show up at the orange crate with his entire gang and try to wipe them out. Hopper suspected, however, that Thumper was less interested in getting his Anthills than in humiliating him, and humiliation tended to be a long, drawn out process. And Hopper was smart enough to know, the longer and more drawn out the torment, the more opportunity to escape it.

Hopper had a plan to deal with Thumper, and he knew exactly where to find a bug smart enough and disreputable enough to put together what he needed. Ma had been gone for a few years, but she still had friends and contacts who were happy to do her boys a favor. One of these was an old Centipede known as The Junkman, who had dealt with Midge from her earliest days as a fence, and had known Hopper since he was a tiny hatchling. He was a scavenger who liked to tinker with the rubbish he collected, and was something of an amateur inventor. But, when Hopper explained to him what he wanted, even the Junkman’s first reaction was, “Are you crazy?”
“Can you do it or not?” Hopper pressed.
“I can take a crack at it, but I don’t know anyone who’s ever tried a stunt like this. Hopper, you know, if this doesn’t work, it’s as good as suicide.”
“Then it had better work.”
The plan was crazy, and dangerous, but it was something his rival would never expect. There was no way Thumper would show up at the rendezvous with only two guys, but, this way, it wouldn’t matter how many he brought. In fact, the more the merrier. The Junkman came through for him, and even Hopper was impressed by his work. When the two weeks were up, Hopper took Gip and Ratchet, and his “equipment,” and headed for the meeting place.

Author’s note: Maybe I should throw in a “PG” for violence about now. Hopper is Not Messing Around…

Chapter Eight

The Neutral Site was a decaying cardboard carton that had blown against a wire fence. Hopper’s party arrived early, took shelter for the night at a safe distance, and approached the carton at dawn. He got lucky. Thumper’s gang was already inside. Leaving his boys behind in the gray, morning shadows, Hopper walked in alone, one hand tucked casually under his wings. Thumper was waiting.
“Well, Hoppy,” he sneered. “Nice of you to drop by. What happened to your face?” he asked, noting the thick gauze that covered Hopper’s mouth.
“Oh, this,” Hopper mumbled, feigning a touch of embarrassment. “I guess you haven’t heard. I had a little run in with a Blue Jay-- "
“Another one?” Thumper laughed.
“What can I say? I’m popular,” said Hopper. He had been counting the shadows behind his rival. “Looks like you brought more than two, Thumper. I thought we had an agreement.”
“Oops,” Thumper smirked. “I’ve never been good with numbers. Oh, well, who’s counting, eh?” he challenged.
“Not me,” Hopper chuckled nervously in reply, raising his lower arms in a gesture that suggested surrender, while he backed away from Thumper’s advancing horde. “Well, boys,” he remarked to his own guys as he closed ranks with them. “Looks like they’ve got us outnumbered. Gas 'em.”

Gip and Ratchet, their faces muffled as well, leapt out of the shadows, landing one on each side of their boss. All three of them pulled from under their wings the Junkman’s handmade Gas Guns they had brought from the Bugopolis. Shoulder to shoulder, they formed a wall and sprayed Thumper and his gang, filling the carton with a cloud of pesticide. Thumper and his boys tried to flee, but there was no way out. Hopper unloaded his gun on them as they clawed at the walls and crumpled on the floor, screaming and choking. All the time, he and his gang, protected by their makeshift gas-masks, were backing out of the carton, away from the cloud and into the open air. When the sounds of struggle had stopped, Hopper raised a hand, and his men lowered their weapons. They waited at some little distance while the pesticide cloud dissipated through the gashes in the box. As daylight illuminated the scene, the masked Grasshoppers surveyed the horrible results of their attack.

Thumper had brought seven guys with him – “Unlucky seven,” Hopper observed to himself wryly. He was pleased to note that Axle and Loco were not among them. There was something about those two that made him think they might prove useful to him. The ones Thumper had brought were all dead. They had turned a sickly gray, their withered limbs curled in contorted poses, faces frozen in wide-eyed grimaces. Gip and Ratchet walked among them, nudging their crumpled bodies with the nozzles of their guns. Thumper was sprawled face down. Hopper put a foot on his shoulder and rolled him over onto his back.

“Eehhhhhh…” A soft, rasping groan, hardly more than a sigh, came from Thumper’s body. Hopper froze. Impossible. He must have imagined it. But, as he stared at the gray, shriveled shape that had been his rival, Thumper drew a ratcheting breath and moved his head, slightly but certainly. With a scowl, Hopper bared his teeth and said, “Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” With his foot, he lined up Thumper’s groggy head for a clear shot, and drew up his leg to strike.
In the sliver of an instant in which Hopper’s foot began its descent toward his head, Thumper sprang to life. The shriek that came from his throat was like nothing Hopper had ever heard. The shriveled Grasshopper snarled and screamed like a wild animal as he flew at Hopper, kicking and clawing. Taken by surprise, Hopper staggered back, and was knocked down by Thumper’s attack. “Get him off me!” he shouted to his gang, wrestling with the wild-eyed monster. It took all three of them to subdue Thumper. The other two held him down while Hopper climbed painfully to his feet. Furious, he drove his foot into Thumper’s side, just for the pleasure of it, then, catching his breath, he cocked his leg to finish him. But, he didn’t strike.
“Come on! Hurry up!” begged Ratchet, trying to hold the thrashing Thumper still.
“Squish him already!” urged Gip, taking a kick in the chest.
Hopper shook his head, with a thoughtful look. “Hold him there,” he ordered, and walked out of the box.
“Whaddaya mean hold him?!”
“We can’t hold him forever!”
Hopper came back, carrying a broken bit of wire from the fence. In his hand, it was the equivalent of a lead pipe. “All right,” he braced himself. “Let him go.”
Thumper sprang from the floor and flew at Hopper. With one stroke, Hopper clubbed him with the piece of wire. Startled, Thumper fell back. He stared at Hopper for a moment, then shook off the blow and sprang again. THWACK! Hopper clubbed him, and again, Thumper retreated. The other two Grasshoppers, utterly confused by what was going on, watched while this little dance proceeded, until, at last, the mere sight of the club in Hopper’s grasp became enough to convince Thumper not to try another attack. Hopper was grinning broadly. “This is going to work,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else, and then he let out a cackle. “Boys, put a leash on our new pet, and let’s go home.”

Chapter Nine

Back in the Bugopolis, Hopper’s gang was relieved to see him. Molt asked him what had happened, and Hopper, in an unusual display of friendliness, clapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Molt,” he grinned, “remember when we were kids, we wanted a pet, and Ma said no, it was too much responsibility?”
“Yeah,” said Molt, unsure of what this was about.
“Well, guess what I brought home.”
Gip and Ratchet brought in the wild Grasshopper on a leash.
Molt, not so sure he liked this pet, asked his brother, “What is it?”
“It’s Thumper,” Hopper informed the whole gang, as they gathered around. “Well, it’s what’s left of Thumper. I guess that’s what DDT does to a guy when it doesn’t kill him.”
“Hoppy, couldn’t we have a nice little aphid instead?” Molt cringed.
Hopper ignored him. “He’s not fully trained yet,” he warned them off, as Thumper growled and snapped at the Grasshoppers who crowded around him. “But I’ll take care of that.”

Thumper’s training regimen occupied most of Hopper’s time for the next few days. With a system of rewards and whippings, he gained control of his old rival. Hopper wondered exactly what was going on in what was left of Thumper’s mind. He seemed nothing but a bundle of vicious, animal instincts, with no real memory or comprehension of his past or present situation. But Hopper soon discovered that there was one trace of the old Thumper that had not changed. He had taken his pet into one of his favorite Bugopolis haunts, to see how he behaved in public, when a Termite walked by. Thumper sprang to the end of his leash and screamed out the one intelligible word he still knew.
“AAAANT!”
Hopper looked at him. “What did you say?”
“ANT-ANT-ANT-ANT-ANT!” panted Thumper, straining at his leash.
“Oh, this is good!” Hopper laughed, letting go of the leash. “Go get 'im, Thumper! Get the Ant!”
“HEY!” yelled the Termite, as the monster Grasshopper pounced on him and began to maul him. “Hey, get this thing offa me!”
Hopper snapped his fingers. Thumper paused and looked at him. “Bad boy, Thumper,” Hopper was chuckling. “Come here.”
Thumper growled in his throat, unwilling to give up his Ant. Hopper scowled and pounded the table. “I said, COME HERE!”
Sulking, Thumper backed off and returned to his master. Hopper tossed him something to eat. “You need a little more work, don’t you? But,” he smiled, “I have to say, I like you this way.”

Hopper did not want to wait much longer before carrying out the last phase of his plan. He assumed (correctly) that the rest of Thumper’s gang would go looking for their leader and missing comrades when they failed to come home from the meeting. If he was right, no one would be prepared to take charge of the gang, and he could take advantage of the confusion. A few days after the Termite incident, Hopper was finally satisfied that he now had Thumper sufficiently trained. It was time to take him home.

Thumper’s winter hideout was an old Mexican sombrero propped against the base of a cactus. Shallow puddles of water would collect in the sand around it, forming pools where the Grasshoppers could soak and sun themselves. Hopper hadn’t given it much thought until now, but it was a nice place; certainly an improvement on the orange crate. He was going to like it here. He couldn’t tell from Thumper’s behavior whether his pet recognized his old home or not, but at least it did not inspire any sudden recovery of his memory.

Hopper walked into the sombrero by himself. The Mosquito mariachi band was playing. Thumper’s gang – he counted perhaps a dozen Grasshoppers – was scattered around the room, drinking, laughing, eating, napping, tossing Mosquitoes at a dart board. The loss of their leader had clearly left them devastated, Hopper grinned to himself. This promised to be easier than he had expected. As the Grasshoppers noticed him, the room slowly fell silent.
“Hello, boys,” Hopper greeted them with a big smile, making himself at home. “Axle, Loco,” he noticed them by the horseshoe bar, and approached them with outstretched hands. “How’ve you been? Good to see you.”
The two young Grasshoppers exchanged a nervous look, and Axle said, “Uh, hi, Hopper.”
“How’d the meeting go?” asked Loco, and Axle nudged him with a spiky elbow.
“The meeting? Great, just great. Couldn’t have been better.” Hopper caught the eye of the Mosquito bartender and tapped a claw on the bar to request a drink.
A third Grasshopper, who had been lolling in a hammock when Hopper came in, now approached the bar. He appeared to be one of the older and larger members of the group, and he was scowling when he said, “Where’s Thumper?”
There were a couple of echoes of, “Yeah, what happened to Thumper?” But only a couple.
The big Grasshopper walked up to Hopper and said, “And what’s the big idea, waltzing in here like you own the place?”
“I’ve got news for you, buddy,” Hopper regarded him coolly. “I DO own the place. This gang is Under New Management,” he informed the room at large, then looked at Thumper’s lieutenant again. “Anyone who doesn’t like it is welcome to leave. Now.”
At this cue, the rest of Hopper’s gang poured into the room. Thumper’s gang regarded them uneasily, but Hopper’s guys walked among them, patting backs and shaking hands. Of course, they were prepared to start brawling if Thumper’s boys asked for it, but Hopper had told them to take the friendly approach first. “Look at this,” Hopper beamed, stepping up onto the bar to survey the room. “One big happy family. Twice the Anthills, more food than ever – boys, we’re all gonna live like kings. You see,” he explained, “Thumper and I came to a little agreement. I run the gang now, and he – Well, I’ll let him explain it to you.”

Hopper snapped his fingers. Thumper, dragging Molt at the end of his leash, sprang into the midst of the crowd. Thumper’s old gang fell back from him as the ashen, withered creature, clearly with no idea of where he was, or who they were, panted and snarled at them. Exchanging a round of stunned and horrified glances, they looked up at their new leader.

Hopper folded his arms across his armored chest and inquired, in an unnervingly pleasant tone: “Any questions?”

THE END