The Ants Go Marching On

The Farmer’s Wife is sipping away at her coffee (which is a frequent occurrence at this time of day) when her eyes zero in on a certain movement.

A small black ant freezes where it stands, sensing it’s mistake. But it’s too late.

Whack.

The Farmer’s Wife lifts the swatter and investigates the remains. A dozen previously motionless tiny black forms scatter this way and that.

Whack. Whack. (x12)

The carcasses are shaken off into the garbage and the Farmer’s Wife now begins stage 1:; Know Thine Enemy. She scans, looking this way and that, lifting and moving jars and canisters, pots and pans.

Her eyes go to the Cupboard, where the Sweeties are (hidden) kept. There is one jar in particular in said Cupboard. The Jar which holds (hides) that which is the nearest and dearest to a certain Farmer’s Wife’s heart. Slowly. Carefully, She lifts that jar.

Little black bodies stream this way and that. Most coming directly from that Jar. She shrieks and drops that which is most precious. Chocolate in the form of chips, cookies, and bars roll and fall this way and that, each with little black bodies clinging tightly to the goodies.

The shriek cuts off as quickly as it started. Why, those beasts are eating HER chocolate. HERS.

She, after a moment, remembers she has a swatter. And she remembers she knows how to use it.

Whack. Whack. Whack.

All hope of cover is gone just at the moment that cover is so desperately needed. Ah! The fatality of their mistake! If only they had gone for the children’s candy, then she may have left them a remnant!

But no. There will be no mercy shone here today.

The Farmer’s Wife, breathless, looks this way and that at the carnage that surrounds here. Bodies lay flung here and there. The chocolate? Completely contaminated.

The enemy is defeated.

But wait. It appears all is not as it appears. Two days and nights have passed since the massacre. The Farmer’s Wife has grown complacent. It has been three hours since a jar has been lifted. Since a room has been scanned. She actually thinks she has won.

Until.

A single solitary ant creeps along, going by unnoticed. Is he worried? No. Is he going directly towards the Cupboard? It appears he is.

Indeed, he sees that the Jar has been Set Back In Its Place. He goes back to his home and repeats the news: the coast is now clear.

A meeting is held. It is decided Numbers are their advantage. They will make their move in the morning.

The Farmer’s Wife sits contentedly with her coffee, perusing through her mail.

A sudden movement catches her eye. She frowns. Did someone leave her cast iron pan on the counter? Don’t they know it will rust and leave a stain? Don’t they know…

The pan moves. No. More than that. It is not a pan at all.

“EEEIIICCKKKK,” the Farmer’s Wife shrieks with all her might.

The Farmer runs into the room. “What is it?”

His Wife points at once was thought to be a pan (but is not)

The Farmer sees this as well.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Unfortunately for the ants, the Farmer doesn’t care about numbers.

Each and every one of them lies smooshed or scattered or generally dismembered here and there and everywhere.

All but one. That one, braver than the rest, climbs over and under his friends. His family. He…

Whack.

No. Wait. The Farmer got them all.