The sole animal on earth who is highly conscious enough for astral travel, and yet remains addicted to the heat fueled by a raging furnace of subterranean blame, the marauding scorpion stolen from his home in a banana tree in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains of Colombia, was angry. He was as angry as his vast consciousness was high. He started out angry in the morning when the sun began to glimmer and he was angry when the light waned. He was angry because there was no better way to be. There was no desire in his anger, only purity. The beginning of high consciousness in a multiverse with no beginning and no end will always be, it is what it is. Dishonesty and denial lead nowhere. And no one knew it better, lived it longer than the scorpion and his kind. He had been angry before any of the Johnny-Come-Latelys crowding the planet were specks of cosmic dust, and he would stay angry after the interlopers were gone. 400,000,000 million years of success does not lie. His anger simmered and his anger stewed but he stayed smartly below a boil. That was the ticket to keep on crawling high.
None of the other highly conscious animals capable of astral travel, not the whales, not the owls, and certainly not that clown act of cursed beavers he despised, Berton and Burton, had such a compelling history. Whatever they possessed he had possessed longer, deeper, wider. None of them had gleaned the lessons from his encyclopedic anger. It was infuriating to the marauding scorpion how those beavers could claim to be happiest when laughing. Conflict, to them, was misalignment, a matter of a cosmic joke. None of them had been around for even 100,000,000 years. His kind were everywhere, jungle to tundra. None of the others nearly so much. What really could they know in the long crawl? Whatever they knew, he knew first. He would continue to know last.
Although banana trees are scarce, the Santa Cruz Mountains proved to be an ideal environment for a marauding scorpion. It felt good to be angry every day. 400,000,000 years is not such a long time for a healthy scorpion to stay angry. The marauding scorpion found a great source of heat to feed his anger in the cracks opened by the San Andreas Fault. He feasted on an abundance of ripe, soft flesh. Legs were bare and toes exposed. Plump breasts popped out of flimsy harnesses that were displayed like ornaments on artificial lawns besides shallow pools. A silly cartoon level of consciousness prevailed behind the gates, not it is what it is, but it is what I want it to be, not there is no beginning and no end, but it all begins and ends with me. The humans posed on their two legs like characters from their own cartoons. If he had a sense of humor he might have guffawed. But the size of the blame he harbored was too vast. They made a big mistake when they let him loose in the soft hills above Silicon Valley. Whoever they were, and are.
The scorpion was immersed in a nearly pure moment of here and now that afternoon, engaged in a series of acute reconnaissance maneuvers on a large flattened parcel of monotonous green lawn overlooking Palo Alto. The swirl of contradictions in the multiverse was intoxicating and his awareness was intensely aligned and attuned. No uppity creature understood the dimensions of harmonious alignment like a scorpion, any scorpion. Like, duh.
When the marauding scorpion recognized what would become a seminal battleground in the war, he paused very briefly to osmote. He gauged scent, dimension, resonance, and circuity, and he calculated optimal angles of attack. Then, he contacted his allies, head lice, and pinworms. Contradictions, as always, abounded. Then, he summoned an army of ants.
The marauding scorpion was ready for a rumble. It was easy for a smart scorpion to blame an enemy, any enemy. He blamed those who wrenched him from his sweet home, those who confined him in the hull of a freighter loaded with bananas, and those unfortunate enough to live in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains overlooking Silicon Valley where he escaped. Somewhere a loser was always available to get in the way and absorb his blame. Everyday, he went out looking for a good fight. Everyday, he was armed, clawed, dangerous. Some number had to be up for some sucker at all times. And that spelled trouble. He was one tough son of a troublemaker. A troubled bitch, too. Nothing beats trouble.
The first fifty million marching ants began to swarm near Los Altos Hills by morning. Twice that many ants were advancing across the Santa Clara Valley from the east. Columns of ants were charging north from the Salinas Valley and Big Sur. Ants came from Chinatown in San Francisco and Japantown in San Jose. A butcher born in Da Nang paused in front of his shop on 7th St. in San Jose and stood at rigid attention. He would never forget what an army of ants had been able to achieve in Viet Nam.
The total weight of all ants on Earth dwarfs the total weight of all humans on Earth. Previously, few humans knew. Many more did not care. But the rampaging ants soon seized the day. The consumer economy took it bloody hard in the shorts. Drawers drooped and sales sagged at formerly chic Stanford Mall. Man caves collapsed and consternation ensued. La Boulangerie turned out poopy vanilla buns in the ovens. Neiman-Marcus was forced to shut down when dying silk bled and ran. Hot slop spilled fecklessly from troughs the size of pickle barrels and gathered in rough clusters on the tarmac. Slaves grappled with wages while two hands were tied and twisted tight.Drains became sticky with melted shoes and petroleum byproducts. Fast food shovelers fell to pieces in hot oil. A boss used to getting what he wanted was left bereft wanting more. A tall man in mauve short shorts and cordovan wing tips attempted to direct traffic as mass consumers fled. He was all cutting edge all over. His wing tips were missing socks and his bellybutton ring was turning green from rancidity.
I wasn’t there when the walls came tumbling down but I heard the horns blowing. Then I became stuck in traffic that went nowhere. I was supposed to be going somewhere until I got turned around. Then I thought I smelled something like stinky feet but received counseling to the contrary. A committee took a vote and I passed. Then I was fortunate enough to learn the most important details the next day on the infallible Internet. By consensus, it was all a mistake and no big fucking deal. A lucky break for those of us at the top of the food chain.