The Death of Argus Ant
Argus the Fractal Ant, that craggy anchorite, uttered only twelve worlds in his whole life, all of them in the instant before his death. “I have never known a man,” said he, “more jackrabbit than ravine cold cuts.” And jabbed defiant antennae at an unfeeling sky, and gurgled, and died.
There were three in attendance that day: Pastafarian Joe, Call Collect Anteater, and Bloviator Prime.
Said Pastafarian Joe: “Well, isn’t that something.”
Said Call Collect: “Yes, by definition. The question is what.”
Said Bloviator Prime: “Eep.” For Bloviator Prime had run afoul some years ago of a troupe of malevolent gypsies, who grew weary of his incessant blather and cursed him with the Eep curse.
“It is my belief,” said Pastafarian Joe, “that Argus was railing against the apocalyptic glee of our divine oppressors.”
“Nonsense!” said Call Collect. “He was simply bemoaning his principled stand against non-hexagonal pancakes.”
“Eep!” said Bloviator Prime. “Eep eep!”
“Imagine, living one’s whole life under the thumb of a god who you are obliged to praise incessantly for the unremitting agonies he inflicts upon you,” said Joe, affecting his best doleful.
“Imagine living one’s whole life without the benefit of pancakes,” said Call Collect. “Or waffles. Or any form of breakfast pastry.”
“Eep,” said Bloviator Prime.
And so they held their hats in their mouthes, and bowed their heads, and said a prayer to all of the dead gods who clustered even now around Argus the Fractal Ant’s empty exoskeleton, keening their absolutions.
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