Not a dancing slave of King Cicada

King Cicada pulled at the chains, drawing his slaves out towards him. It was disgusting, that much is safe to say, it was disgusting objectively, you’ll see, few if any would disagree and of those who would or could, hypothetically, I am incapable even of imagining.

King Cicada wasn’t a cicada. That’s not the way it worked. He was not just a giant version of the common ubiquitous bug yet he had the carapace – car-a-pace, yes, I’m on the right track for a change – and the bulbous eyes and therefore “Cicada.”

King Cicada and his cadre of sickly human dancing slaves.

The lightbulb, which I see I have not previously taken the time to mention, o it can be summed up quickly enough, it is true, swung from the peaked attic roof – there I’ve done it or nearly – casting its light intermittently on King Cicada and the others despicable enough to be present. It could have been any old dusty attic, yours perhaps, except no, it was this one.

The Grub of Earl, whose horrible name originated only God knows where, bid on a software designer from somewhere, Andover, I believe. King Cicada outbid him. Again. I hoped the software designer could dance, for his sake, for though I did not know him, I had a soft spot for humanity, I could not help it.

The software designer went for one hundred thousand urts to an emperor with too many wings. (There are three hundred thousand urts in a crrk. I hope that helps.)

The dancer went for a crrk.

The crusty truck driver went for six deodas, a conversion I will not bother to delve into, why bother, I refuse.

The baker they bid on for hours.

Antennae waved and reticulated white skins reticulated out through the swarm. The auctioneers-slash-slave traders, I suppose they were, appeared pleased. They were today a huge success by the standards of auctioneers-slash-slave traders, which are not measured by the moral and success standards of you and me, it is obvious.

The baker went for a deode. At last. Lord Pillbug grabbed him to go. Something I don’t know what in the dark shook in anger, against a break in decorum maybe and it was my turn upon the little stage.

“Up next, we have Harry! Forty-six years old, dependent on a host of medications, chemotherapies, and doctors for mere survival, with full use of one eye and of one arm, he hobbles along with a cane, slurs his words, eats through a stomach tube, and his arms are covered with the residual glue of a thousand bands of medical tape!

“What do I hear for a starting bid on this fine human specimen?”

Crickets.

No, not crickets. Some things giant that chirped but were not, strictly speaking, crickets. Then the chirps were no more.

My cane, a completely superfluous thing if I were to be honest but a thing I’d come to rely on, I nearly said used as a crutch, I switched from my right hand to my left. I tried to stand taller. I’d expected better.

“Just last year, Harry was assessed at four hundred thousand urts. That’s more than a crrk. Just last year. In December. Do I hear ten thousand urts for a starting bid?”

The swarm seemed unimpressed, to me, anyway, I who am nearly completely unfamiliar with how an impressed swarm might appear, but one guesses, one guesses.

“His right arm is close to okay and he’s expected to pass a barium swallow test any day now… Isn’t that great? Do I hear five thousand urts? Do I hear four thousand urts?”

“Hmph, he’ll never be a dancer,” said King Cicada, pulling at his slave chains and rolling his eyes probably, in way of explanation. The Grub of Earl nodded, I believe he did, and others rattled and clicked.

I was eventually passed off to an over-sized unwary waterbug who was not a waterbug, free with five pounds of spoiled cheese.

Perhaps I ought to have felt insulted.