With a fresh kill in tow, the hunter made his way back to camp through the snow-covered forest. The weight of the stag labored his every step. A cold snap hit. Sharp, biting winds whipped icy ... [+]
How does one god kill another? I contemplate this as I sit perched on my web, tucked beneath the shadow of the birdbath. He makes his rounds, scrupulously inspecting each row of tulips before moving onto the begonias. We're not all that different, he and I. We are both masters of life and death within this domain, but our conflicting interests have fixed us in opposition.
Decades ago, he set the stage by manipulating the yard into a rectilinear projection of his own limited human imagination. He has fenced in a biological autocracy and has rejected the natural world that flourishes beyond these white picket walls. He regulates the yard at its own expense and at the expense of his cause. A garden leeched of natural order is left vulnerable to infestations of aphids, mites and whiteflies. Normally, that would spawn a buggy buffet for myself, but he stifles the symptoms of this disease under layers of insecticides that contaminate my prey. Life is nothing but an object to control and death is a means of regulation. I secrete venom from my fangs while he sprays venom from the nozzle of a canister.
Without his tools, man is nothing.
How does one god kill another? Leverage and stealth. The time has come to administer a pest control of my own metabolism. I rustle my fangs and scuttle down from my perch, making my way through evenly planted rows of lavender towards my prey. He tends to his work meticulously as I clear the distance between us. My target hardly has time to register the tingling sensation in his exposed ankle before he is on the ground, slipping into paralysis. Destruction breathes life into creation. His soft shell will crumble away and nourish this once-tamed lawn, giving rise to a kingdom of my own.