Mr. Grasshopper: "I have the persistent impression that this is a reference to something, but I could not say to what. In any event, rewrite this. It is the most sensationalist, self-aggrandizing, impossible, false document I have ever been compelled to read. We need to begin to deal in fact, not fantasy."
Brad Trent: Conservative. Pro white dudes, anti-immigration. Obviously funded by the Colgate company. Instantly forgettable.
Cliff Smithson: Liberal. Anti-Brad Trent, pro-socialized healthcare and affirmative action. Also forgettable, but not a bad guy, I guess. Maybe too earnest for this game--kind of a milquetoast.
Thorn Bitebody: Verrrry liberal. Eats granola. Pro-animal rights, which is nice. Anti-government, which, eh. Smells strongly of patchouli. Probably into the legalization of all KINDS of things, if you know what I mean.
Beauchamp Dickmund: Third party, known centrist. Doesn't seem to like much of anything, but that's fair, since nobody's talking right just yet. Not bad? Former exterminator, which, you know, is a problem, but he seems to have seen the light. Possibly older than dirt.
Centipede: "No, they ain’t. They--ha ha ha!--th-they ain’t."
Grasshopper: "Hilarious. Mrs. Ladybug married the Fire Chief of New York City some months ago. They met at a gala and fell in love instantly. There was a beautiful ceremony, although...well, they love each other and that is what is important. We were all very hesitant at first. After all, he is a human, covered in soft flesh with warm blood and sort of...well, he doesn’t exactly have all that many arms, which I think would be a little more essential to compatibility, if you understand me--"
Centipede: "Heh. You an arm guy, Hops?"
Grasshopper: "Ahem. They are married and we are all very happy for them. She and I are not at all romantically entangled although I flatter myself to say we are close friends and she is very dear to me. "
Miss Spider: Oh, you have started one of these--? Yes, for the campaign. I am sure it will only be used for those purposes, correct, Commodore?
...ugh, Playboy? Centipede. I am embarrassed for you. Please take James away so that he will not witness your terrible taste.
Thank you.
To answer the question--though I do not comprehend how it pertains to politics--Centipede and I were recently lovers, although we are now friends. We were just too different. I love dark theaters, he loves raucous boxing matches. I read Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Lovecraft; he will not even touch Poe but devours Elmore Leonard novels. He wanted to keep his head, I wanted to chew it off...the usual star-crossed story.
We are better off as friends, truly. The conversation is so much better this way.
Centipede: Kid’s fine! Spider got official custody of ‘im, since that’s what they both wanted, and they live in the Peach Pit.
Grasshopper: He goes to a private arts school and is very interested in writing. He received straight A’s last semester and we are very proud.
Centipede: Poor kid was a tree in the last school play, though. That’s gotta blow.
Grasshopper: He was a very good tree.
Miss Spider had just laid out supper--steak frites for her petit homme and steak tartare, still bloody, for herself--when the doorbell of the peach pit rang. “James? Please answer the door,” she said, in French. The boy was young enough that a second language, spoken around the house, was easy enough to pick up and would give him a considerable leg up.
“Yes, mum!” the boy replied. Miss Spider would never replace his own beloved mother, of course, but he’d fallen into the habit of calling her “Mum” lately and it warmed her heart far more than she would’ve ever thought possible.
James opened the door, his hands still slightly damp from washing up for supper, and found Mr. Grasshopper and Centipede waiting outside. “Oh!” the boy said, smiling. “Hello!”
“Hello, my lad,” Mr. Grasshopper said to James’ flailing limbs, as Centipede grabbed the kid and gave him an affectionate noogie. “Are we interrupting?”
“You are,” Miss Spider said, hearing their voices from the kitchen. “But come in. There is enough for everyone,” she added, dividing her meal in two and depositing some on a plate for Centipede. “Will you have a drink?”
Centipede bustled into the peach pit as if he owned the place, his usual method of locomotion, and kissed Miss Spider on the cheek as he passed her. “Hey, Angelfangs.”
“Commodore,” she smiled thinly. “Wash your hands. You reek of the streets.”
“That’s the smell of success!”
“Wash.”
“What, all of them?”
James poured himself and Mr. Grasshopper a glass of juice. “Are you hungry?” he asked the older bug. “You can have some of my fries.”
“Oh, thank you, but a growing boy like yourself must be hungry,” Mr. Grasshopper replied. “Besides, Mr. Centipede and I went to visit Mr. and Mrs. Ladybug not long ago and she fed us very well.”
“Vegetarian casserole,” Centipede said in an undertone to Miss Spider, who shuddered with revulsion and carved off a little more of her meal for him, out of pity.
“What brings you here?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows as they sat down to the table.
Centipede leaned several elbows on the table. “I’m running for office,” he announced proudly. “Figured you ought to hear it from me first.”
“We know,” James said.
“We do own a television,” Miss Spider murmured, amused.
Centipede deflated. “That’s it? ‘We know’? Howzabout a little encouragement?”
“You are an imbecile,” Miss Spider said.
Centipede jerked a few thumbs in Mr. Grasshopper’s direction. “He said the same thing. But look at me now! Running for mayor.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” James said happily. “If you think you can do it, then you should! It’ll be a great adventure!”
Miss Spider smiled a bit at her charge’s enthusiasm. “Who knows?” she said, a tinge of cynicism in her voice. “Perhaps you will do good in the world, completely by accident.”
“Hey!”
“I am surprised you have not stopped him,” Miss Spider said to Mr. Grasshopper. “You realize this will only end in absolute chaos.”
“I do,” Mr. Grasshopper sighed. “I did my best but I’m ashamed to say it was not enough.”
“What is the matter with you people?” Centipede grumbled. “Should be supportin’ me! My own campaign manager...Judas Iscariot Grasshopper!”
“I do support you!” James replied.
“I am not your campaign manager!” Mr. Grasshopper insisted. “I am a musician!”
“Then why are ya helpin’ me run a campaign?”
“I am attempting to keep you out of the worst of trouble,” Mr. Grasshopper said primly. “Lest you again dive into treacherous waters.”
“It is your turn to fish him out, this time,” Miss Spider agreed, taking a bite of her meal.
Centipede growled under his breath. “Smartasses.”
“I think we should support Mr. Centipede,” James said, frowning a little. “He’s trying really hard and I think he’ll be good at it.”
“If you insist, mon cher,” Miss Spider murmured. “Best of luck, Commodore, you at least have my vote.”
Mr. Grasshopper wanted to say that Mr. Centipede couldn’t do much damage to such a terrible system anyway, but this was a potential untruth and he thought it a much greater evil to lie, especially in front of an impressionable young person, than it was to let a man go unpraised. “Your heart is certainly in the right place,” he said to Mr. Centipede, deciding that that would have to do.
Centipede smiled and leaned back in his chair. “That’s better.”
Grasshopper: The platform is...still under construction.
Centipede: I mean, I’m a simple kinda guy...you’re a grown-ass person, you should be able to do your grown-ass stuff. Don’t hurt nobody and you’re good--but you people are all about hurtin’ people, so knock that shit right off. Stop kicking people outta places for no reason and tellin’ ‘em where they can and can’t go and what they can and can’t do on account of their bodies, because that’s bullshit. I dunno. Is “don’t be a dick” a platform?
Centipede: All right, that’s what I stand for! Listen up, bub, the problem ain’t the fucking roaches, it’s that kinda attitude! You know what the problem is? It ain’t that these bugs is dirty or carryin’ diseases or whatever, it’s that people wanna kill ‘em without tryin’a help ‘em! Gotta get these kids in school and working! Some decent God damn healthcare, maybe! I grew up with kids like that and they ain’t bad--just gotta lift ‘em up instead of squishin’ ‘em under a fuckin’ boot!
Grasshopper: ...that’s actually rather inspiring, language aside. I hadn’t expected you to be so passionate about the issue.
Centipede: Fuckin’ pesticides, Hops! Of course I’m against bug-killers! Shit, like they don’t kill humans, too!
Grasshopper: An interesting point. Do you suppose that the lack of crocodile tongues in the systems of the roaches of New York City will present an impediment to the schooling and employment of these citizens?
Centipede: Eh, maybe? All I’m sayin’ is that instead of killin’ things we ought’a be trying to help ‘em get cleaned up and put somewhere decent--not a “roach motel”! Shit’s a sick joke.
Grasshopper: Perhaps we ought to throw your lot in with the ASPCA. I wonder if they do any work with Bugs’ Rights Advocacy.
Grasshopper: Although James and Miss Spider live in the Peach Pit in Central Park, I’m afraid the rest of us found such accommodations to be much too small to hold a family of our size and set off to find our own lodgings. Mr. Centipede spent many of the first months in New York City living in each of our family members’ homes in turn. He has told me that he was uncomfortable in each home after some time but I am not sure how much of that was due to scarcity of space and how much is due to Mr. Centipede’s company being something of an endurance test for longer durations.
In any event, by the time he reached my home, I was well-installed in a very handsome apartment and could afford to lodge him. Although it initially appealed to me due to its marvelous acoustics, I found that it could also house visitors with more comfort than I had anticipated. Mr. Centipede began to stay as a house guest and before either of us knew it, he had been living here for four months. I admit myself as surprised as any--I honestly would’ve thought we would’ve come to blows before then, but we’ve lived in relatively consistent harmony all this while.
As far as I know, he has demonstrated no inclination to leave in the near future and I confess that I do not wish for him to do so. It is pleasant to have a bit of noise in the house, and his company can be perfectly charming. I’m not a very social chap in the general run of things, but it is a large house and prone to quite a lonely feeling, when one is by oneself.
It would be nice if he paid a bit of rent or bothered to purchase groceries, but all things considered, it’s a very comfortable situation. I suppose it’s a bit like having a pet, really.
Centipede: "What kind of a bullshit question is this?"
Grasshopper: "Yes, I must admit to finding myself quite confused over this particular question. Why, what do they mean by-?"
Centipede: "I mean, are you serious? How ya gonna ask about chumps like them?! Batman? Wolverine? Those mother fuckers ain't got nothin' on the likes o' Spiderman n' the Blue Beetle! Get this shit outta my face!"
Grasshopper: "..."
Centipede: "...What?"
Grasshopper: "What in Lord's name are you blathering on about?"
Centipede: "Sure! I mean, yeah, ya gotta imagine a couple more arms and some antennae, but it gets the job done!"
Grasshopper: "I wouldn't call that a very professional start to your mayoral campaign, Mr. Centipede..."
Centipede: "Hey! The people ask, and I deliver! I'm a bug o' the masses, and I ain't gonna leave a guy hanging when they're askin' the important questions here!"
Evening sunlight entered the window of the Manhattan penthouse, giving the living room a loving glow. The apartment's owner, one Mr. Grasshopper, sighed as he listened to his record player fill the room with the soft lull of Debussy's Nocturne. Evening tea was always a pleasure, and even more so when the musician was able to enjoy the peace he knew wouldn't last for long. It never did, when one shared their living space with another...
As if on cue, the old green grasshopper heard the door to the apartment jostle and turn-- his antennae twitching as the noise clashed with the piano recording-- and before long he heard mutterings as the door was opened. Walking inside without much enthusiasm, was the likes of the older insect's house guest turned roommate: Mr. Centipede. Centipede looked up from staring at his shoes and noticed Mr. Grasshopper was home and sitting on the sofa. He smiled sheepishly, as he mumbled an apology.
“Home so soon, Mr. Centipede?” the musician asked, lifting his cup to his mouth. “I had the impression that you planned on stay out till late in the evening. Or at least, I had assumed. You were very adamant about 'partying the night away' as you instructed me not to wait up or order dinner for you.”
“Yeah yeah, don't remind me Hops.” Mr. Grasshopper couldn't help but smile at the nickname, as the carnivorous insect made his way into the penthouse. He made it to the fridge, and the older bug could hear glass clatter and clink as they were moved about. The musician heard a faint cry of “jackpot”, before Centipede made his way to the armchair across from him. The shorter insect plopped into the chair, and Mr. Grasshopper took note of a bottled beer in one of his companion's many hands.
“Did something go amiss, sir?”
“Naw, well... Not really. Jus' after I got to the Spider Club, nothin' really happened. Couldn't stand bein' there for as long as I was, let alone the whole night.”
“Miss Spider wasn't sufficient enough entertainment?” Mr. Grasshopper took another sip of tea, before inquiring more on the situation. “Or no young women willing to take up your offers of company?”
“You know Angelfangs, Hops, she stopped for a minute an' then went off to take care of everybody else. As for the skirts...” Centipede popped off the lid of his bottle with his teeth, spitting the cap into another hand before chugging the beverage. He sighed afterward, as he sunk into the chair.
“As for the dames, “ he began again with a smug grin, “they couldn't keep their mitts offa me!”
“Then what, pray tell, is the matter? It sounds like your sort of entertainment. Dancing, an endless supply of ales and wines, companionship of the female persuasion... Why, if I found myself even the slightest bit interested in the location and the darker community of Miss Spider's ilk, I wouldn't find myself so readily leaving.”
“Wouldn't, huh?” Centipede took another gulp, glaring as he noticed the drink almost gone. Shit. “'The matter' was...is...It was borin' as hell! It was just like yesterday...and the day before that...and the day before that...”
Mr. Grasshopper found this somewhat difficult to process. Centipede was a fellow who liked to live on the edge--in the past week alone, he had swum in the Hudson river (the thought of it made Mr. Grasshopper want to gag), participated in a boxing tournament, and had danced in half the nightclubs in the entire city of New York, in addition to staying over with James a few times to teach the boy to play poker.
“We have very different definitions of boredom, sir,” Mr. Grasshopper observed wryly. “In my eyes, you have been extremely busy lately.”
Centipede waved three hands. “That stuff don’t matter! It’s all, y’know, vacation stuff. I gotta get my hands dirty, Hops, I’m goin’ stir-crazy like this!”
Mr. Grasshopper felt that to be a dark idea, indeed. The last time Mr. Centipede had gotten an itch for adventure, they had nearly frozen to death in the Arctic wastes.
He didn’t know quite how their lives--and possibly the lives of their family--would be imperiled by Centipede’s foolhardiness this time, but he knew he had a small window of opportunity to suggest something sane.
“Well, perhaps it’s time for you to throw yourself into some kind of occupation,” Mr. Grasshopper said.
“Get a job?” Centipede translated. He lifted an eyebrow. “Tryin’a tell me somethin’, Hops?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Grasshopper disagreed. “But if you find little satisfaction in the way you spend your time, perhaps there is something productive you could do that would make your free hours have more savor. Why, it’s quite a large city...and you are a creature of many skills.”
“I’m touched,” Centipede drawled, tapping his chest with a few limp hands. He hopped up to get another beer. “Eh, what would I do?”
“You are a remarkable chef,” Mr. Grasshopper pointed out.
“Meh.”
“You have a hearty constitution. Perhaps construction work?”
Centipede returned with a pair of bottles, throwing himself back into the armchair. Nothing to do but get a little bit shitfaced in the comfort of Hops’ home. “Have a drink, Gramps, ain’t right to let a guy get blotto alone.”
“You shall do no such thing,” Mr. Grasshopper said, “or I shall drop you off at Mr. Earthworm’s residence for the night.”
“Bottoms up, man,” Centipede said. As he knocked the top off of another bottle, he smiled to see Hops pour himself a little sherry. Poncy son of a bitch--say what you will, the guy had class.
“Nah, construction ain’t fer me,” Centipede said. “Ya get too good at it and they boot you up to a desk job anyway.” He took a swig of his beer. “Man, Hops, there’s nothing to do around here. Ain’t no mountains t’climb. I’m a guy who needs a big project...something I can really get into. Gotta get out there, meetin’ people, gettin’ shit done...there’s a whole city out there, y’know?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Mr. Grasshopper said.
"I gotta do something big, Hops," Centipede replied. "Don't much care what it is. Just don't want anybody to ever say Ma Centipede's boy never made something of himself!"
"Ah," Mr. Grasshopper murmured. "Making a difference, to borrow a phrase?"
Centipede pointed the fingers of one hand like a pistol and shot it at Mr. Grasshopper with a click of his tongue.
Mr. Grasshopper swirled the amber fluid in his glass. "Who was it that said 'Politics is the art of the possible'?" he murmured to himself. He smiled dryly. "Ah, there you have it, Mr. Centipede: the way you talk, in large and vague terms, perhaps you have the perfect combination of totally inexperienced enthusiasm and charisma to run for office," he joked, glancing up at his roommate with laughing eyes.
Centipede stared at him, a grin slowly crawling across his face. "Hey now..." he drawled.
The smile disappeared from Mr. Grasshopper's face like a fried egg slipping off of a oily fry pan. "Oh, no," he said quietly. "No, Centipede, think about it, you have no connections, you have absolutely no experience--"
"I'mma 'Mercian," Centipede grinned. "Brooklyn loves me, I don't take no bullshit--"
"You've never so much as run a household, you can't even balance a check book, you live off of whatever food you find lying about--"
"I'm always looking out for the little guy, I don't like getting hustled in my own town, I know what's gotta get cleaned up in this city, I ain't afraid of gettin' my hands dirty an' makin' some enemies--"
"The only issues you concern yourself with are those vile Playboy magazines (which is mystifying to me), you don't understand the process--"
"That's what I got you for! Be my campaign manager!"
"Dear Lord!" Mr. Grasshopper cried, monocle popping off of his face. He seized it with trembling fingers and put it back before his eye. "Absolutely not! Besides the fact that you are a giant insect, sir, and no party shall run you, not even these totally insane American parties--"
"You're right there," Centipede said, rubbing his chin. "I know! I'll start my own party! Centipede Party!" He snapped four sets of fingers, outlining a headline with two arms. "'Ain't no party like a Centipede Party!'"
"Would you listen--"
"Hops, I'm only gonna say this once, but man, you're a genius!" Centipede hopped to his feet. "This is a great idea, 'bout the right time for election season, too! All right, I gotta campaign manager, I'm gonna need some canvassers and a few interns and--"
"I am a musician!" Mr. Grasshopper exclaimed. "I have no idea how to run a campaign!"
"Just stand there 'n' look smart, shouldn't be hard!" Centipede grabbed the newspaper. "Don't need no platform, just some common sense, really."
"You're insane," Mr. Grasshopper intoned.
"Gonna be singing another tune when I'm sworn in, Hops," Centipede grinned. "'Mayor Centipede'...gotta nice ring, don't it?"
Mr. Grasshopper wished he'd had a performance that night. He needed something to get him away from this lunatic. "You cannot be serious," he pleaded. "You cannot be serious."
"Serious as the grave, Hops! Time we gave back to the community and I'm just the sly bastard to do it!"
Mr. Grasshopper shook his head. "I refuse to be a part of this," he said, standing up and turning off his record player. "I am going for a stroll."
"Don't get jumped," Centipede said. "Current mayor hasn't done shit about crime."
Mr. Grasshopper took a turn around the block and stopped at a small bodega on the corner to acquire sustenance. Centipede had returned home before he'd had his own supper and he was hopeful that a sandwich and a bit of quiet would reveal to his roommate the incredibly foolishness of his scheme.
On the television of the bodega, he paled to see Centipede's picture and to read the text strolling along the bottom of the screen. Obviously Centipede had better access to news reporters than Mr. Grasshopper had imagined.
“Centipede throws his hat into the ring!” the television boasted. “The beloved Brooklyn bug promises to pack a wallop!”
“Blast,” Mr. Grasshopper said, hurriedly paying for the sandwiches and all-but sprinting back to the apartment.
Centipede had cranked up the volume on the small TV he’d smuggled into Mr. Grasshopper’s home and was grinning when Mr. Grasshopper returned. He tossed a beer in Mr. Grasshopper’s direction and the older bug fumbled to catch it, glowering at him. “Pop a cork, Hops, we’re running for mayor!”
Mr. Grasshopper sighed and tossed the sandwiches dispiritedly in Mr. Centipede's lap, watching the network pundits begin to froth at the mouth. "I wonder if they shall demand to see your birth certificate," he murmured dryly, pointing his beer at Mr. Centipede's mouth. The pest obligingly bit off the top and Mr. Grasshopper downed the drink in one turn.
“Well,” he said when he was done, placing the bottle next to the other empty vessels at Centipede’s feet. “I suppose I shall have to help, if only to keep you from getting killed. James would be heartbroken if I let some faction of organized crime kill you to keep you out of office.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Mr. Grasshopper decided that his days of peace were at an end. He could only hope that Mr. Centipede would lose interest soon.
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