We Are Not Kings After All
See "The Martians Are Here and it is Glorious" for background information.
Despair, for our miserable time on this whirling flesh orb continues. This reporter was mistaken. It seems the rulers are not the mole or lizard people, or the staff of Dubois, or Australians. Now the glorious Martians leave us behind, maybe forever. They have got what they came for.
A Martian reaches into a tree, grabbing a hand(?)ful of kings. The Martians then departed in their buzzing craft, abandoning their faithful liaison Serr-vo. “Please, mass-terrs,” it shrieks, but they are indifferent. Serr-vo wails and wheels itself away, a broken mechanical eggshell.
We should have seen it long ago. The termites construct impenetrable fortresses, bend the very fungus to their will, and link their secret sites surreptitiously and subterranean-ly. They erode away at our structures to add to theirs. Compared to them, how can we even begin to measure?
This reporter found some living in the corner of his room, under a pile of dirty laundry, chewing on his decrepit dorm door. He has placed several wood chips from a garden bed by the entrance to their hole. Maybe they will accept him into their society, as an equal hopefully, but he will accept anything at this point. This is the Purple Hermit signing off.
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