Myrmidon

December 3, 2009

There was still something of the ant in us, in the blackness of our armor, the way we formed neat lines as we summoned our rage for battle. Entering the fray, our spears were as stingers piercing our enemies, our swords as sharp jaws cutting through flesh and bone. We left bright trails for our brothers to follow as we danced death through the lines of the Trojans, who fled back to the relative safety of their tall walls.

The war ended, and those who were not crushed beneath its heel found the nostos they sought, turning ant once again to furrow fields in straight rows and build earthen walls to shelter their families. Except me. I craved only battle, and my lust was insatiable. Tireless. The gods granted me a gift, which I now give to you.

It is a sword, yes, but it can be a rifle, or machete, or pistol–whatever instrument of death you desire. There will always be someone willing to pay for your services, be they armies or petty criminals. Me? I have grown tired. But I sense something of the ant in you…

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