After donning my suit of armor like knights of old, I forayed into the fray. Out to the grocery store.
In the entryway, I plucked a wet wipe and reached for a cart. That’s when I heard a tiny voice.
(Ever since I fell off the roof and banged my head, I can hear all the species on Earth. Like Francis of Assisi, except I ain’t no saint.)
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s right. Hu here. Please don’t wipe me out.”
“What is this about? I can’t even see you.”
“Wut is on the second cart, hanging on the handle. We’re microbes, you know, so of course you can’t see us.”
“I don’t know, sounds suspicious to me.”
“Ai Doen Noe is playing on that third cart.”
“So are you guys all on the same team? You must be from out of town.”
“Yeah, Lingo, that’s it. The same team, sure. And we are from out of town. Way out of town.”
“Well, all the ballgames have been canceled because of the virus thing that’s going around.”
“Geez, that’s too bad ‘cause we came all the way from China to play here,” said Hu.
Other customers were giving me some strange looks, this guy standing there talking to a shopping cart. But then a dim light flickered.
“Wait, wait! What’s the name of your team?”
“No, Wut’s on second. But we’re called the Coronas.”
“I KNEW IT! You’re the virus that’s been causing people to get sick and even die.”
“Wow, that’s a harsh accusation. We’re just on a goodwill tour of the world, looking for hosts where we can take shelter and multiply.”
“You are parasites. You serve no Earthly purpose. You are the lowest form of life.”
“According to human scientists, viruses aren’t even alive, but they should broaden their definition of life. And that parasites crack is wrong, you know,” said Hu. “We’re more like predators, which you humans must admire because you name your ball teams after them.”
“Oh, really? So you’re like lions and tigers?”
“And bears. Can you name any types besides microbes that thin the human herd?”
“Um, I think so,” I replied. “How about sharks?”
“Not a lot, Lingo. We cull more humans every moon than sharks do in an eon.”
“You mean kill. You say cull like viruses are in charge of managing us.”
“We kinda are. You humans reproduce like rabbits until you dominate the domicile — the Earth. And you’re not slowing down your damage.”
“OK, that’s true but can’t we have the time to change our ways and take care of the Earth before you guys kill us off?”
“Hey, most of you will survive our stay in you skinbags. Then maybe you’ll mitigate your mayhem. Meantime we need to ensure our survival, too.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it. It’s game over right now, no matter Hu or Wut,” I declared, wiping down my cart and the second and third, too, then tossing the tissue in the trash.
I could still hear them holler for help from the can as I headed in the store. Like inmates scheduled for execution, it was dead bugs waiting.
I slept like a baby that night. Maybe I missed my mission to be a Mafioso. It was my most cold-blooded killing since I drowned a tick down the drain.
Frank Lingo, based in Lawrence, Kansas, is a former columnist for the Kansas City Star and author of the novel “Earth Vote”. Email: lingofrank@gmail.com.
From The Progressive Populist, May 15, 2020
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