Glorious Bastard
Half-squatting in the sun, my quads straining under me, I squint to better focus my eyes on my prey. It regards me nonchalantly out of a single eye, mandibles masticating the remnants of its last meal, mind wandering no doubt contemplating its next. Warily, I swing my right arm forward, in it a delicate but deadly butterfly net. His wings twitch and I slow my arm to a mere crawl. Sweat drips down my brow as I wait it out tensely. Soon he grows accustomed to my stillness and glances away. It is all I need – in a moment he is under the net, panic setting in instantly. Carefully I pinch the net and lift him up. Turning the net over, I now take a better look at the reward for my efforts. Just his head is visible between the folds of the net and now, I see that he is really scared. From his mouth he expels a brown sludge, a toxin meant to scare away predators by making him taste nothing short of awful. I wonder if The Basterd will still greet him with enthusiasm? We begin the short walk back to the laboratory, also known as the Great Insect Cemetery, the Green Mile, the End of the Line.
I was not always a deadly bug-hunter. Oh, no. There was a time when I spent my time focused on my dissertation, when finishing graduate school was my chief concern. Things are different now that The Basterd is with us, for He cannot be ignored or left unattended. Serving Him is my heart’s desire, the culmination of fourteen years of schooling and 6 years of university, all leading to this one moment. The Basterd must be Fed, Groomed, and Cleaned. He must be Moved from his Royal Quarters to His Traveling Palace. When He leaves one space, it must be scoured, fresh towels replacing soiled ones, fresh fruit laid out attractively for His benefit. He is carried reverently through the jungle to His favourite spot where He will entertain visitors, the common tamarin leaving his life in the jungle to visit this godly stranger, curious, yet bashful and always, always, respectful. When He is displeased we all face his wrath, and His screams of rage rend the air, drawing frightened subjects from afar, leaving us cowering on the forest floor, our nerves all a-quiver. His subjects were haughty in the beginning but now He is their hero, their Jackson, Presley, Khan, and Bhachan, all rolled into one. You can tell by the way they try to copy His moves, none even a patch on Him. They want to look like Him, walk like Him, scream like Him…and eat like Him. Suddenly, animals that have paid scant regard to the mountains of fresh bananas in their vicinity for the last three months can be found gorging on the sweet yellow fruit. If The Basterd does it, it has to be Tamarin Cool.
When He decides that He has had enough Adoration for the morning, He demands to be returned to His Royal Quarters. We rush to acquiesce, fearing He fly into another rage and begin Screaming (anything but the Screaming). Carefully He his carried home, and arrives in time for His first big meal of the day. We have been preparing long and hard for this moment. I shuffle in quietly, obsequious eyes bowed to the ground. In my hand is an offering and I hope against all hopes that it will be to His liking.
He leaves His Traveling Palace and enters His Royal Quarters. First, He must check to see if anything has changed and, of course, if the changes are to His liking. His bed must remain unmade, towels smelling just the way He left them. All excrement must be gone, about this He is very particular. At least one new climbing toy must have been introduced, or He will sulk and scowl for hours. Today it is a collection of rope, knotted along its length, cut to look like a large floppy spider suspended from the ceiling. He glances at it as we wait on tenterhooks. Tentatively He reaches out an imperious paw and shoves it… it swings and He looks pleased. We heave a small, collective sigh of relief.
I take a small step forward and reveal my prize. It quivers in my hand, unaware of what is to come.
He has seen me! He spins around and jumps to the front of His play area. Still quiet. That isn’t good.
I bring my offering closer to Him. Joy, oh joy! He utters a guttural snarl, and crying out in excitement and longing He reaches for my hand. Squealing, He grasps the cricket’s head in both hands and for a moment, they exchange a glance and the cricket knows that it is all over. In seconds his head is ripped off, and consumed whole. The Basterd systematically chews the rest of the animal, discarding the wings, which are much too crude for His refined taste. He is seated upon His haunches, a leg in each hand, masticating joyfully what was once a perfect exhibit of saltatory locomotion.
Now is when our real trials begin. We split up into teams, armed with nets, napkins, and little boxes and baskets. Carefully we comb the area around the lab for insects, our hunting skills maturing with every new kill. We visit the surrounding mosquito-net traps that we have laid out in advance, a piece of fruit soaked in rum under the net acting as a lure for the hapless bugs. Together we collect moths, butterflies, crickets and katydids. We return with our spoils, freshly caught, and bowing reverently hand them to The Basterd. Each one He regards seriously for a moment before greeting with the same high-pitched squeals reminiscent of intense pleasure … or intense pain. Hungrily but always with Taste, He consumes each offering, making a mental note no doubt of the best hunter in the room.
At the end He has consumed 27 insects – 16 small grasshoppers, 8 medium-sized moths and grasshoppers, and 4 large katydids.
Finally, His squealing dies down and He pays a visit to His water bowl. Delicately lapping up the clear water, He washes the savoury meal down, His tummy making happy gurgling noises. He glances our way momentarily and then, with an imperious wave, dismisses us. He is going to take His Royal Nap.
We may finally leave and eat our own lunches, trying in vain not to recollect the charming and innocent faces of the 27 beautiful insects that we have sacrificed to our Lord. The Glorious Basterd is our biggest hope, for a true trend-setter is hard to come by and the world is waiting desperately for his next move.
We know that you want to know more but everything written about Him requires His approval. I’m not sure if this will ever make it out to the urban world. If it does, I hope that you can see that every word was penned with the utmost respect for our Master, the Glorious Chiky Basterd of Peru.
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