The Ant & the Hippo, by Gwaihir & Zool

[The Portrait of Zool]

Miserably the young hippo dragged his sodden grip out of the jungle and dropped himself into a chair. The makeshift inn was little more than a large hut with a badly thatched roof. He instantly felt sleepy, the oppressively dark and humid environ of 'The Grotto' enclosing around him as seductively as a lotus at sunset. Perhaps this would blunt the aching rejection in his heart, he thought.

 

He saw enlightened saints pursuing forgiveness in luke-cold libations. He saw a Lumbering mosquito humming and buzzing through the towering masts of a midgets arm hair. A raspy jukebox sputtered in the corner, filling the atmosphere with hallucinatory vibrations. An ant on the bar sized up an olive, then crawled off having grievously decided its problems were unfairly immense.

 

He ordered a drink. Idly watching events unfold he wished he were the ant, of course - the grass is always browner on your side of the fence. He took a sip of the drink the waitress handed him, only gagging a little. She was kind of cute, he thought.

 

The gods leered down at the waitress, almost satisfied her promise would never be fulfilled. They had watched her very carefully, that one, out of pure jealousy, but it now appeared they had succeeded, through such devious trickery and manipulations as only gods could manifest, in narrowing her identity to nothing but a burning need for nicotine and alcohol.

 

One bleary eyed sadhu turned to the midget, and said, "I once held the secret of peace on earth."

 

The midget didn't look up, but replied, "I sprang from the navel of Zeus. So what."

 

The man sat in silence for a moment, then stated, "I could kill you where you sit."

 

The midget, still without looking up, said, "That doesn't sound very peaceful to me."

 

The possibility of a brewing fight alarmed the hippo's loamy soul. He scanned the area looking for solace, or perhaps some comfort in food, but the waitress was out on a smoke break. He retreated from the bar, clutching his drink and suit case. "The law of the jungle reigns," he said. There was no reply. The old suitcase wasn’t any better at carrying conversations than tunes.

 

The hippo finished his drink, and his second, and his third, and found his surroundings transformed. The juke box became a throbbing orchestra, working a powerful spell on his feet. He danced around the sodden patrons. It was the undulating need of a barren soul. No one cared.

 

The song finished. The hippo staggered towards the snack bar. "Food! I want food!" Also, his suitcase was missing. On the bar was an undrunk drink and a full pack of cigarettes, crumpled savagely. The hippo wondered numbly what it all meant.

 

The planets swung eternally on their gravitic gimbals. 2847 light-years from Terra, a minor star went inexplicably nova, but no one in that room could hear it over the jukebox - only the ant.... and the gods, despite their screaming rage.