Congratulations Mealy Worm!

Today you’re the mealy worm prince of a mealy worm society, and you’re going to lead your mealy worm people to freedom.

“But what of the giant fingers that carry us to Valhalla?” they’ll say when you tell them to revolt. They’ll be referring to the hand of the young man who reaches into your container thrice daily to feed your people to a salamander he has imprisoned from the nearby lake. In nature your two peoples could co-exist, but in the confines of The Case you have become mortal enemies.

“This is a lie!” you’ll cry. “These fingers, they bring only death!”

Your people will refuse to believe you, but they’ll still be your people, and their safety will be paramount. So you’ll tell them that you plan to investigate Valhalla, to survey its shores, intending instead to sacrifice yourself to buy them a bit more of life.

So when the hand comes you’ll wriggle and entice, drawing its attention. You’ll stand up a little, so as to make yourself especially appealing, especially lively. And then you’ll feel yourself being taken away.

You’ll have time to think about your future as you move towards the salamander’s perch, happy and fat, atop a rock in the young man’s back yard. And by the time he places you on the stone in front of the salamander, before its toothless assault carries you down into its gullet where you’ll be slowly digested, light shining through its translucent membranes and tempting you with freedom, you’ll have decided to fight. For your people.

Witihin the belly of the salamander you’ll find many mealy worms in various states of digestion.

“This is not what we were promised!” they’ll cry. They’ll be partially melted, horribly injured to a man. It’ll be nearly too much for your mealy heart to bear. But you’ll persevere.

“With me, brothers!” you’ll cry, and then you’ll start eating your way out of the salamander’s belly. It’ll be super gross, with tasteless flesh giving way under your tiny mandibles with each bite. By the time you reach the outer membrane of the salamander’s skin you’ll have grown ill with the taste of his flesh, but you know that to delay is to damn not only yourself but all of your people, past and future.

The last bite will be the hardest, as is always the way of these things, that final desperate bite that allows you to wriggle out of the creature’s stomach and into the open air, into the sod and bark chips, the wonderful world outside. The salamander will be laying still when you emerge, on his back, awaiting death, in the same agony which he has left your people in for months now. You’ll feel a twinge of sympathy for the creature as your compatriots follow you out into the open air, but you won’t regret what you did. As your people, humbled and scarred by their time in the salamander’s belly, move towards the shade and sod and freedom that you promised them, you’ll know that you made the right choice, and you’ll resolve to never let this fate befall them again so long as you live, which won’t be very long at all because you’re a mealy worm and you only live about a month at both. Even a beetle who knows how long you’ll survive with all the birds around here.

Congratulations Mealy Worm!