Montezuma Versus the Final Entomologist
Sometimes it was cute, sometimes it was funny, sometimes it was embarrassing. Sometimes I thought of my three year old son, with his fear of butterflies, as a pussy. Of course, by the time I realized an apology was in order, it was too late—there was no one left to apologize to. The conquest proceeded with an Aztec ferocity, leaving torsos emptied of hearts, and the blank, lifeless stares of the disemboweled. Politicians dithered away the precious days in impotent debate, while the asylums emptied their screams into the streets once the outcome became obvious and inevitable. I am the only one left in my neighborhood, hiding among my nets, my jars, my cotton balls, my bottles of alcohol, and an endless supply of silver pins, ready at any moment to drug and stake the evil little bastards, until the end of days, in the name of humanity and the memory of my son.