Moths Mean Business
Venezuelan Poodle Moth
I was working in Polymorph, my audio studio, which was located in North Oakland, in a neighborhood now referred to as “Temescal.” My studio, with its fortified, lead-lined walls was like a bunker. “A safe place to be in case of atomic war”, folks who spent a lot of time there, often used to joke. The place provided a womb-like atmosphere where the creative process could flourish.
I exited the cloistered safety of the studio to the alley outside and from there I proceeded to the sidewalk, briskly crossing the nearly empty street, and commencing to cut across a parking lot of a coin-operated laundry. About 25 feet away, but walking towards me, was an almost generic “business man,” in trench coat, with briefcase. Trailing behind him was a similarly attired gentleman, and an almost generic “smart business woman.” Beyond her was another “business man.” The four were not walking in obvious formation, but I began to notice similarities that made them far too alike for coincidence. As they made their way closer, it became clear that they were similar as carbon copies. No longer casually, I cast my attention toward the nearest “business man” who was getting closer by the microsecond. It was at this moment that I realized that my perception of scale had been drastically off! The “business people” not only were closer than I thought, but also smaller than I had assumed at first glance. They were only about forty inches tall! What appeared to be trench coats were the folded wings of huge moths. The dark coloring of the very fine powdered fur submerged many of its moth-like insect features.
Venezuelan Poodle Moth
Much of what seemed to be humanoid attributes, at closer view, were revealed as color variations on the moth fur. As I began to view it with conscious attention to detail, I began to see some of the camouflaged, moth-mandibles, and compound eyes, and I was able to put together how fuzzy, folded antennae appeared at a distance to be a felt hat. For a moment I considered the incidence of refined camouflage in nature would be advantageous for two primary purposes: To hide from predators, or to trick prey. As these moths rapidly narrowed the gulf between us it became obvious, that they weren’t hiding from me. Their approach was steady and confident. I began to imagine the mandibles of a forty-inch-moth pinching my delicate skin. I saw one spread and begin to flap its wings, which completely negated the spell of its human disguise. It made sound that reminded me of the sound of shuffling cards. It’s eyes reflected like polished copper and it’s mandibles clicked like snapping fingers.
Just then, to my left, I noticed three ironically clad “hipster-dudes” with ironic moustaches and two female “hipster-babes,” ironically dressed in longish skirts, approaching me.
They too, seemed frighteningly similar to each other.
But — they were not moths.
The moths flapped and snapped over me with a warm breeze and landed on the backs of the ironically clad “hipsters.” Their spiked claws and legs easily dug through the ironic outfits and into flesh. Thus anchored, they flapped their wings, which let go a cloud of silvery, powder. It seems the moths were all females, as they each curled their abdomens to inject multiple globules with their scimitar-like ovipositors into the prostate area of their hosts. I stood with my mouth agape, afraid to run, while I watched the entire process, which lasted several minutes.
After the bulges in the ovipositors abated, the moths appeared spent, almost desiccated.
Were they dead?
I went back inside my bunker-like studio, peered surreptitiously through the curtains and continued to observe. After about five minutes the moths, re-inflated, stood up, disengaged and retracted their ovipositors, and flapped away in a cloud of silvery powder.
Moth Conductor
After about another ten minutes of watching apparently nothing happening I opened my door and went outside to inspect the victims. As I crossed the threshold, I saw them rising to their ironically clad feet, and heard them speaking.
“Whoa! I must have been tired. I don’t remember lying down. Do you?”
“No. We must’ve been wasted, yo?”
“Yah! My stomach is kinda queasy.”
I loaded myself into my car, and rapidly, took off in a northeasterly direction. As I drove I nervously scratched imaginary itches, and brushed away phantom cobwebs.
Moth Closeup.
I felt perhaps it was time to relocate. Onward to Berkeley, I guess. A couple miles down the road while stopped at a traffic light, I saw another little ironically clad group. One fellow appeared to be choking. As he hacked blood, he crumpled, writhing on the ground. As he writhed and hacked a wet bloody spot appeared on his pants near his ass. From that spot, finger-sized spiny caterpillars began to wiggle out. Caterpillars also accompanied the blood projecting from his mouth. The number of caterpillars seemingly increased exponentially the longer he hacked and writhed. It began to be difficult to observe him because the rest of his compatriots were also writhing and hacking on the ground.
Moth even closer.
There was a little moth inside my windshield frantically fanning its dusty wings.
I rolled down the window, and brushed it toward the opening.
Out it flew.
Hopefully, it’s not too late to start paying it foreword.
Chrysalis
