Ant-eating identity crisis
A ground-bound old lady and her anteater hold a jar of red microchips. He’s pinning hugs on unsuspecting desperados, she’s the one who didn’t care that much. They were at the crossroad where pillocks collide. No one in sight except an oasis, maybe two. Were they going to abort? I suspect they didn’t know themselves.
On with the belly rubs, the rebellion will not be nationalised. They see a moose sneeze, a hockey puck wedged into her left eye socket. Was she a supporter of the regime? A subordinate of the diet? There goes the time, the clock is two-faced too. The old lady, she’s omnipresent. The anteater, he’s punching holes in old bills. So who made the watermill spin in reverse?
Go to the merry dock where they fry the fanatics, they were told. Hold on to your sassy man-eating utopias, they were told. Seemingly biting on a deaf ear, then flip-flopping to the nearest hill. The anteater, all creased and grumpy. The old lady, filled to the brim with ants. Were they now one another? They will have to meet again, after sunset. They’re sobbing, but at the end, it was worth all the bruises. They stab each other in the neck. At last, they’re not mad anymore.