They’re All Ants – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One

 

I’m watching them all from my parents’ bed room window, I think they’re all so sad. They’re all ants. They’re all ants besides Patches and me.

Patches is my dog. She about eighteen years old, her tits hang and drag on the ground, her face is eaten up by flees, but she’s still got enough in her to bark and chase every car that drives by our house. She’s a survivor, that’s why she isn’t an ant like everyone else.

I love Patches above everybody else because she’s the only one that recognizes my greatness.

I have a secret, I wish I was God.

I wish I could cast judgment over all the ants from a throne of sovereignty and holiness.

I wish all the people at school, all the sluts and big jockey pricks would have to look up at me on Judgment Day, after I lit the whole world ablaze, and beg me not to throw them into the pit. I’d throw them in anyways, though.

The only people who’d be safe is Patches and me, maybe my friends too, but they’d be my court jesters at best.

It’s no secret I have trouble in school, but that’s because the teachers are all fools and don’t understand me, and the ants they have me peered with are beneath me; I know they are, and one day they’ll all know it too, and when they do, Patches and I will laugh.

 

 

Part Two

 

It’s after school now, I’m standing in the crowd in front of the school waiting for my mom to pick me up. My jesters are standing around me with their foolish, unintelligent-looking faces, they’re blowing unintelligent words from their drool covered mouths. I don’t know why humans think they’re any less primitive than other animals. These people are nothing but knuckle dragging, dull-eyed, brain dead apes to me. Patches is much smarter than any of these idiots.

They don’t see my greatness. Fools.

I’m surrounded by foolish apes and filthy sluts. Every girl my age is either horribly unattractive or whores. Even the good looking girls that don’t seem like whores are whores secretly. Underneath their modest clothes and the shy bull shit masks they wear, they’re all whores, and they won’t even fuck me because they know I’m on to them.

Those sluts aren’t real women, they’re meat bags shaped like women.

I wish I didn’t have a sex drive, sex is ugly and beneath me.

 

 

Part Three

 

I’m walking Patches now on top of the levee. The sun’s going down and I’m happy watching her run.

I’m looking now over the river, and I’m facing it, I’m spreading my arms out as if I’m presenting the sunlight that’s reflecting off the water to the world: my gift to the ants.

Again, I wish I was God.

I wish I was God, and I wish an Atom bomb would drop over all of the world and leave only Patches and I to roam the leftover wasteland without the whores and big jockey pricks, and even without my jester friends.

I wish I was God and I wish it was only Patches and me.

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