suicide mission. reported, holly point farm, virginia

*carpenter ant writing from Holly Point Farm in Belle Haven, Virginia

are you trying to get me killed question mark

boss, our deal was i will undertake certain surveillance and reporting assignments and you will refrain from chemical warfare on the estate. you asked me to get rid of the wasps. this is lethally dangerous. wasps eat ants for breakfast. the only way i could emerge as a whole carpenter ant, without being eaten by my relatives, was to assume a diplomatic guise and make contact in the cool of the evening during cocktails.

i set out for the white-faced paper wasp nest aka polistes comanchus.

sez i, ‘evening your white-faced regalness. may i have a word question mark‘

‘miniscule mite, i am a busy wasp with no time to banter with bugs‘, she retorts, mandibles clicking.

sez i, ‘your highness, i bear missives from homo sapiens management - owner of said porch roof wherein you repose and reproduce. he wishes that you pack up your hive and hightail it.’

‘pernicious pest‘, sez her white-assed queenness, ‘we are a proud species with 100 million years of white-faced wasp supremacy in our blood. we build where we damn well please. don’t need no stinking homos. avast, irksome bug exclamation point’

she flexes her big white abdomen, stinger pumping in and out.

‘begging your indulgence, excellency‘, sez I, ‘but management has classified you as an immigrant terrorist species here-abouts and declares that if you don’t book a vespid vamoose he will unleash ‘fire and fury and chemical death like the world has never seen‘. homo management is a proud god who nukes what he does not love.’

‘scram you black-faced bastard before i separate your head from your thorax,’ she screeches.

i left.

next, i visited a dainty thread-waisted mud dauber, aka sceliphron caementarium, with yellow hose and stilettos, high-stepping in the mud of a hurricane puddle.

‘what-ho miss twiggy, what’s with the high-rise hooves question mark’

‘fashion, you little black trash‘, she sez, with a sizzling sneer. ‘our class of wasp is the proud owner of the shiny-ass-skinny-waist-yellow-decoration gene. i do not muddy myself with common slime.’

‘tarted-up sextapod‘, i complain, ‘management god wants you to cease and desist with the spider-stuffed mud-huts in his boats and weather station.’