I IMAGINE many people do not see ants as significant, unless of course you are Cornelius Lewis, the 76-year-old heart patient who was attacked by them in an American hospital.
It now seems that we, the vast majority of ordinary but equal humans, are similarly disregarded by the global elite. Perhaps not in readiness to be eaten, but at least as endless millions to stick a pin or needle in and skewer to their board like a poor butterfly. To be pored over, recorded, and recalled to be pinned or needled again. All typed up in such neat little personal notebooks with our own QR code to control and track our new status as millions and millions of specimens.
Does a Gucci-shod foot think twice about the pin cushion ants beneath, pumped full of the billions of currencies worth of gene-altering messengers racing through muscles and blood vessels to deposit their payload. Myocarditis, pericarditis anyone?
But in the rarefied air, on the premium leather seats of the private Lear jets, who cares? Drinking 1820 Juglar Cuvee, while far below thousands of wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, grandmas, granddads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, lovers, friends, colleagues, the breadwinners of the earth are arranging funerals, believing bats to be the most deadly creatures on earth, rather than their Frankenstein fellow humans.
Clever cartoonists could capture the leers in the Lear jets, the smirk on the ever-satisfied lips, the ‘as much distance and fog’ as possible conjured between the washing of the manicured hands and deadly deeds. Coldly, they grace the stages of COP26 and the toasting marshmallow fire pits of Devon.
So, at the moment, there should be no fear of any Gulliver-like tying up of the Frankenstein elite. They fly high above, literally; behind smoked glass, blinds, curtains, sleights of hand on the levers of power; guarded by prime human beefcake, armed to the teeth; injecting nothing beyond collagen and monkey glands for eternal youth and admiring, in thousands of mirrors and self-portraits, the Michaelangelo chiselling of a plastic surgeon.
Oh, to be an ant when the reckoning is near.