Welcome To The Imago Tavern
T he place was dead as a windshield. She gave the bar top another pointless mirror polish and then she felt it. After all these years she could still sense when The Season began, not in her loins or her blood, but an echo deep in the lacuna of her exoskeleton. She lit a smoke, taking a satisfied gander at her retirement plan. She was long past fertile and now she had a different kind of vault to fill. This little hole-in-the-wall had been just the ticket. It was stocked and ready. Soon it would be crawling with every young bug in the city hopped up on hormones and grass clippings, filling the air with a miasma of pheromones thick enough to choke a lady cockroach and definitely turn one on. With oscitated jaws and frisky antennas, bugs would buy her booze and rub legs across the table until it was time to get to the propagating. Inevitably there would be one lone fellow left moping after the last pair skittered out. She’d eat him; head first this year. Some cal...
Comments
Merry Christmas
-Aaron