Discover more from The Chatner
Untitled Molt Game: I am the horrible bug that lives in the town
“I am the horrible creeping bag of sound that is the most worst to you! I will use my beak to mischief you and I will press B. I wobble my snake-front-body and I waggle my bag-back-body and they meet in the middle to plan a bad idea to upset you. I flap back and forth my business rear for balancing and I snapple-pap my feet all up and down the town for terrible reasons, and you don’t like it. I am the goose and you are the miserable boy with no honk. I invented my body and it was the best idea.”
I am the horrible creeping bag of sound that is the most worst to you! I will use my stiff arched segments to mischief you and I will press cut Venus in Furs out of a magazine. I wobble my snake-front-body and I waggle my brown-belly-back-body and they meet in the middle to plan a bad idea to upset you. I flap back and forth my business rear for balancing and I snackle-kek my feet all up and down the walls for terrible reasons, and you don’t like it. I am the bug and you are the miserable mother with no antennae. I invented my body and it was the worst idea.
Clack! Clack! I flap open my back in celebration when I make victory over the door, when I smash it from its lock, when I smash it down, when I undo all of your doing. Here I clack! I hold up all of my chitin and I make more layers of me, the bug that ends your family.
These are the keys that you do not have! I am flat and racing over the earth and you are all the way stood up, all the way confused, all the way chief clerk and no ideas. I make a fight between yourself and your memory. I wet your feet because I do not respect them, my legs are perfectly obedient, and I am leg-satisfaction.
Your breakfast room? I make it terrible! I make a puzzle of your room! I hustle up your newspapers and remove all the shoes for a punishment to you. Theft puts a parade into my walk, I am so proud to steal from you and your bad family, who are no good to me and are not bugs. I am the most bug who ever was, and I am enough bug for the whole house, because I am a little brown heartbeat that moves very fast, more fast than anything else, for surprises. See me rotate, slowly, for the exasperation of my father.
My business is the worst business and you have it. Here I come! I’ll take any big thing, small thing meant for hiding, widest thing, right in my jaws and hustle it away from your permission, because Gregor Samsa doesn’t agree with property and never has. Here I come again! Here i come, scrabbling for hours on the leather! You cannot anticipate me because your brain is so big and weighty and far from the ground, but my brain is fleet and small and ground-sure and I have all I need in my wicked bug-body, and also I have your radio.
Where is the father for me to disrespect? I am his least friend. I see his newspapers and I contempt them. I ruin his life! Breakfast for him? No! Shoelaces for him? No! I make every escape. I am the pest of his whole awful body but my body is so smooth and good. I am the idea that is Gregor! My body works. My body is the softest belly-pillow with an army-shell attached, strong and useful and all the way sweetheart. You need everything but I have it. I put my hiss in a jar so there is more hiss! I hiss at you, I hiss directly up to God, and I will never leave! You will never be well again, and I will trouble your chief clerk all of the time. I am all a triumph, I am the most successful bug, and you are misery with suffering and hopeless with loss. I have a beautiful dish of milk. I sneak your violin in my mouth, and now I have two mouths to hiss with, and you have nothing to say. There is a beautiful sofa for me to sneak under and your mouth is so, so empty, because you hate me, the great bug with a mouth, with a basin of water reserved for my own exclusive use, and a buttered roll. I am tremendous! Here I am coming, with the good news of me, and you hate it, and none of you want any breakfast. My sides are palpitating in collaboration to locomote forward!
No husband for Grete! No bug-body for my sister Grete! No more walking-stick for Mr. Samsa! Get rid of the furniture and make way for the skittling of me across the floor! I triumph on the ceiling with my many feet, and you sorrow on the floor with your only two feet, no valves!
You can think only of the violin and how much I have it, and you are never the bug Gregor. I will run around with my violin as much as I want and you will make despair. Here comes the bug! Here comes the violin bug! Everybody be awake to the bug now and from now on! You liked this house so much before the bug came and ironed over all of your peace, but I’ll bring tin-can-and-boot-trash into your bed and mouth. You’ll never be the bug, and I already am the bug, as most as a bug can be, all coiled up and ready to spring, stretching my young body and ending your journeys.