Jerry & The Locust

Not too long ago I met an old man named Jerry who told me a fascinating story about the time he worked for a giant insect posing as a man. It was many years ago, when Jerry was still a young and curious traveler. He had just determined the world was not as flat as his parents had led him to believe and was wandering the wasteland in search of experiences. It was while passing through an unnamed village at the edge of the known desert that he first came upon the locust-in-disguise. At first, like many, Jerry assumed he was a human.

With a face that could melt the hearts of women and men alike, the bug had an irresistible charm and wore one of the finest suits Jerry had ever seen. A self-described "witness" by trade, the bug spent his days delivering fevered sermons from atop his mud-caked carriage. His messages were rich with existential poetry. Occasionally he'd produce a simple stringed instrument and sing. His songs, like sweet church music, would draw in passing zealots, a handful of whom would return daily. Jerry wasn't what you'd call a believer but the bug's lyrics had a universally appreciable quality to them. Jerry found himself humming the tunes for days.

The bug took an immediate liking to Jerry, though he wouldn't call it typical fondness. It was more like an obsession, an intense mix of disgust and respect. Soon, the bug invited Jerry into its carriage for a few rounds of mud soda. It called itself Quill and said it was also a traveler. Right away Jerry could sense that there was something not quite right. Quill's rants would reach emotional highs that his face wouldn't adequately reflect, one of many strange quirks Jerry downplayed at the time. After a night of drinking, Quill asked Jerry to help him dig a hole.

When recalling why (despite his trepidation) he agreed, Jerry postulated, "Maybe it was the mud sodas or maybe I saw a mystery to be unraveled."

It would be several months before he discovered Quill's secret identity.

Jerry easily dug the hole in less than a day. Soon, Quill had other small jobs lined up for him. The jobs usually involved digging holes or building odd objects like birdhouses. Quill had many ideas but claimed his weak back kept him from following through. He didn't have any money to offer but Quill insisted Jerry take something in exchange for his labor. The gifts ranged from thoughtful to confusing, children's books, copper piping, and the occasional jar of flies.

After about three months (far longer than Jerry was used to sticking around a single place) Quill's habits started getting more erratic. During one sermon, a liberal heckler in the crowd interrupted Jerry more than once. Quill finally responded to the critic by taking a few bites out of his own hand. This successfully silenced the dissenter. The crowd seemed impressed but Jerry began to wonder if this "witness" was really just a touched lunatic.

When word spread of Quill's self-cannibalizing-inspired devotion, the crowds got bigger and Quill's antics got stranger. His sermons started to reek of insectoid reasoning, often sounding more like sarcastic performance art. One day, in place of a sermon, Quill quietly dissected a small pig and buried the parts in individual graves. The response was an uproarious applause that Jerry didn't understand.

Soon, Quill's songs were spreading through the village. The people were so entranced by his words they stopped tilling the fields and feeding the farm animals. It hit a low point when, after a mutilated corpse was found in the street, the villagers ran to Quill for a solution. He calmed the crowd down with a story about a flying piece of chicken with the heart of a warrior. The parable did well to sooth the rabble but Jerry was left puzzled by the analogy. By now, the songs sounded more like manic chittering, not useful philosophy. He began to suspect Quill was up to something.

One day, while Quill was preparing for his next sermon, Jerry decided to spy on him. His plan was to catch Quill "out of character." He thought he'd discover him counting stolen money or speaking without his usual transatlantic accent. In hindsight, Jerry admits he didn't know what he'd find.