Insecticide, Part V: Armament

Keeping watch over the back entrance to the compound, four of us were sitting around a lamp, cradling our weapons, talking for a spell before the action would kick up again.

The token Indian guy (we’re at least a few years beyond the cliché “token black guy”) said something about how his dad used to always justify his alcoholism at family barbecues by saying how mosquitoes won’t bite you if your blood-alcohol level is too high.

And something clicked in my mind.

Immediately, I got up to test a theory. We had a few bottles of Jim Beam and Sailor Jerry that we were saving, and I got them out and loaded them into a couple of water guns instead of the usual bug spray cocktail.

The next wave of ants that tried to seep through got a collective faceful of college memories. Sure enough, they didn’t like the hard alcohol.

Further testing would be necessary, I knew… but we already began raiding our spirits cache for new ammunition.

They could adapt to our chemical warfare, as they had proved time and time again, but they couldn’t adapt to alcohol, it turned out. They just didn’t have the genes for it. Only humans had developed the tolerance over countless generations of intoxication.

It was a theory, but maybe we could turn this discovery into something powerful. New armament for the Bug War. Maybe… just maybe… we could turn the tide.

I took a squad in one of our fortified trucks and headed out to find a liquor store. Unfortunately, they had all been looted by the stereotype panicky masses whose priorities in a crisis are always askew. We would have to head boldly to another town…

And so we did.

Bastrop, Texas.

A place no one should ever visit. Ever. But I figured the place was such a worthless shithole that even the bugs wouldn’t want it. I was right. It was almost as thought no one in town knew that the bug invasion was even going on. Jackpot.

We stopped to load up on gas and booze at a gas station/liquor store one-stop shop. I went in and the clerk gave me a cautious glance-over and a tenuous “howdy,” the underlying tones of which actually said, “You look different from me, so I suspect you’re a bad person and wish you weren’t in my town.” Good thing I didn’t send in the token Indian guy, huh?

I returned his greeting with a Midwestern “How’s it going?”

I proceeded to fill several carts with bottles of hard alcohol. He looked surprised, then impressed, then alarmed, then irritated as I continued to stock my carts full of liquor.

“Are you going to buy all of that or are you just making a mess?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “this is all coming with me.”

He stepped away from the cash register to watch me with folded arms. When I finally brought everything to the front to check out, he shook his head at me and walked back over to the cash register.

The exchange went something like this:

“Son, there’s no way you’re actually buying all of that.”
“Yep. I am. It’s all for me. Well, for me and my friends.”
“All of that?!”
“Yeah, I need it.”
“That’s almost half of my stock.”
“Well, it’s my stock now.”
“Are you stocking up for a lifetime supply?”
“Of course not! This’ll be gone in a couple of days, and I might have to come back for more.”
“A couple of days?!”
“Well, yeah. My friends and I are probably going to be up all night with this, and we wouldn’t want to run out before we can get our hands on more.”
“Sweet Jesus!”
“Are you gonna start checking me out or what?”
“Son, you can’t possibly have use for all that alcohol! How many friends do you have, anyway?”
“Well, they’re not really my friends, just people I brought with me to pick up this booze. We’re pooling resources, as I recommend you do.”
“Why don’t you try Coke for a change?”
“What, are you kidding me? What’s that going to do? Nothing! I need alcohol.”
“…There’s no way I’m selling all of this to you. There’s a limit.”
“But I need it!”
“You need all of this?”
“Yes, all of it!”
“I reckon you don’t. Now I’ll sell you one bottle, and you can go put all this back on the shelves, or else you can get the hell out of my store right now.”
“What?!”
“I can’t let you have all of this.”
“We have the money for it, don’t worry.”
“It’s not about the money. You’re not getting all of this alcohol. I can’t allow it. This is too much for one purchase.”
“What kind of capitalist are you?! Oh, I get it. You want to keep some for yourself. That makes sense… you wouldn’t want to run out overnight, either. Okay, how about we just take a third of what you’ve got?”
“Get out of my store.”
“You don’t understand, I don’t think my friends and I will make it through the night if we don’t have all of this alcohol.”
“Well then you and your so-called friends are just sad.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to imply that we were inefficient with it. Believe me, we are pros at this. We’ve done really well so far, with only a few fatalities.”
“My God!”
“Come on, man. We’re desperate. We drove all the way from Round Rock for this.”
“You are just out of control, aren’t you?!”
“But with this booze we can get back our control.”
“I don’t reckon it works that way, partner.”
“Look, just ring me out and I’ll be on my way. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about this. You’ve got plenty left for yourself.”
“Get the hell out of my store, now!”
“You’re a hapless idiot. Fine, have it all. You’ll probably come crawling to me for help when you realize you can’t handle it all by yourself.”
“That’s it, I’m calling the police.”
“I’m going. Dick.”

I’m not sure what that guy’s problem was. Greedy bastard was hoarding it all for his own protection. He didn’t even have anyone to help him out. So why couldn’t he share the goods? I mean, we would have gladly recruited him, but he was so stubborn that I didn’t even get the chance.

Oh well. We ended up picking up a few bottles here and there along the way back, and now we’re back at the compound. We are re-arming and preparing for battle.

I hope this works…