The proud future insect lies repulsed at me, at us all.
There’s several pictures of it culled from the past decades. Shiny black in most, with stark white tones. The earliest images are worn smooth and blurry, printed thirty two years ago on thin cheap cardboard folded then jammed into rectangles of plastic, stories about the creature’s exploits detailed on the reverse.
The insect’s logogram, thought jammed through words, a knife slid through the ribs, the best we can do at explaining: code with a spider’s legs.
Eight proper ones as we would understand them, two antennae, a half a dozen feelers trailing behind the creature, pentagram carved into its ebony carapace. Even at the dawn of it all the proud insect was there, crawling through a sky of clockwork over blasted blue dunes.
Stamped on thousands of arms and torsos like the face of a lion on a coin, rays of sun spilling from its mouth, red triangle on a beer bottle.
The proud future insect scurries away.