"I assassinated the entomologist," I said with poised smugness over the uproar in the back of the dim bar in which I was lurking that evening, but my declaration had unexpectedly locked the room into a powerful silence.
"He was a dangerous epileptic," I ventured defensively.
The silence only grew more formidable. It seemed that I had made a miscalculation, even the riffraff at this hole in the wall was seemingly progressive enough to have sympathy for both entomologists and epileptics. Someone muttered drunkenly that he came from a long line of distinguished entomologists, even though he had decided to make his living as a plumber, and he also insisted to everyone present that plumbing was just as distinguished a profession as entomology in a clumsy way that probably left most of those present unconvinced but equally unwilling to quibble with his inebriated logic.
"And what does epilepsy have to do with it?" came from the stout proprietor standing behind the bar in the midst of polishing a mug.
I was staggered by the negative response, thinking I was among intelligent and like-minded individuals. I sheepishly folded my wings back into my carapace with an awkward, cellophane-like crinkling noise that rattled too-loud off the low ceiling in a move that was later described by eyewitnesses as Kafkaesque.
"I am not a bug!" I said softly but loud enough for all to hear as I scuttled away rapidly under the door-frame to find a suitable rotten log in which to hide and lay my eggs.
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