Last Call for The Ant Queen (Finale of The Ant Queen Chronicles--Or Is It?)

The day had come, the final trumpets sounding as we advanced on the lair of The Ant Queen, leaving our vehicles unmanned but divinely copiloted. The tunnel entrance was still unguarded, inviting all manner of entrance, from any direction. The cloying smell of Her Femazons' yeasty perfume wafted from the corridors, where it suffused the dank air of those fetid passages.

It had been only days since I seized the McGuffin and saved the baby fetuses from their awful fate and found them good homes and learned from Joey Rats the secret of defeating the Godless swine who populated these dungeons, spewing their hatred for the Flag and the Cross and the lambs of God, fornicating and Clinton-worshipping and listening to their vile guitar music, watching soccer games on Univision, and eating dinners that include a cheese course. That secret, of course, is the power of the Holy Seed of the Believer, and for this assault, we had plenty of Seed available and an abundance of delivery systems. One thousand Men marched with me into the Vulva of Terror, bearing their Crosses behind them, free hands upon Their Mighty Rods of Harlot Smiting. We knew we would send many Marxist succubi to burn in Hell this day, on this most sacred of operations.

The Halls of the Ant Queen were largely empty this day; we ran into a few of our own, poor tired martyrs to our cause, escaping from the clutches of Her legions after having been tortured with WB sitcoms about sassy teenagers who are permitted to dress like whores and dishonor their parents and fornicate with roving gangs of other teenagers and idolize graven images. Needless to say, these wretches were damaged beyond our immediate ability to help, and after rubbing them vigorously with our crucifixes, we sent their damaged souls and defiled bodies back to the rear echelon for intensive prayer and healing. Some were likely beyond hope, but persistent vegetative state of course does not mean permanent vegetative state, and so our healers healed on, and we soldiered on, wary of terrorist acts of procreative freedom and other ambushes.

The ambush was inevitable, of course. We advanced slowly into a large chamber, delivery systems at the ready, and they filed in, lining up in front of us without fear, a veritable Greek chorus of gynoterror: Barbara Boxer, Patty Murray, Diane Feinstein, Barbara Mikulski, Hilary Clinton, Maria Cantwell, Susan Collins, Olympia Snow, Mary Landrieu, Blanche Lincoln, and Debbie Stabenow, looming before us. "Forward, Men!" I shouted, "It's only the Senatrixes!"

Hilary laughed at me maniacally, cackling shrilly, her gynoparts inflating to proportions that would have been comic if they were not so terrifying. "We are the Power and the Glory," she chortled. "Melt before us, primitive creatures of the dark Freudian recesses of the Y chromosome!"

I regarded her coldly. "Aren't you missing a few Senatrixes there, Hill? Where are your fembot buddies Hutchinson and Dole?"

Hilary's cackle changed tone but little. "Kay and Liddy?" She snorted violently, aborted fetuses and burned flags spewing from her nostrils. "They're women, you dolt! At them, Senatrixes!"

With that, the iniquitous thirteen advanced as one, unsheathing their giant phallic clitori and stroking them ominously. I dived right and out of harm's way, scurrying down the tunnel's gutter and past the enemy just as the carnage began, the dour crones having turned our own weapon against us, my troops melting away, screaming as they were showered with the battle-inflamed hermaphrodite Senatrixes' vile lust-product. The carnage was awful as my Men retaliated, the product of the combatants' combined weaponry dripping from every surface. In no time at all, two-thirds of my force was routed, but the Senatrixes were themselves puddles of smoking goop. I rallied the remnants of the Army of Right and began to march with them deeper into the Abyss, knowing that the Senatrixes were the last line of defense.

It was anticlimatic, really, when we rounded a corner and found ourselves in the Main Chamber of Her lair, confronted by Herself in all her foul power. She reared up, hissing at me as I began to wave My Mighty Rod of Harlot Smiting and deliver The Final Monologue.

"We have seen your legions, Queenie," I began, "and the souls of many of My righteous warriors have been pickled in their unholy brine, damned to...uhm...damnation, yes, that's it!-- and we will no more tolerate your wicked ways and their support of trees and out-of-wedlock homosex and Buddhist electric cars and witchery and unJesusness!" As I spoke, my voice rising, my remaining troops began preparing their own Mighty Rods of Harlot Smiting, their large hands moving almost in unison as my speech gained steam. "Lo, for We are the mighty and you are the wicked, and..."

"Oh, can it, Insuffricubus," she snarled. "You are such a Nazi."

I grinned wolfishly, knowing then that I had her then, and it dawned on her quickly, her color paling quickly as she realized her fatal error. "No...I...er...wait!" she mewled, but it was too late, and she knew it. She said the Unholy Word first, and would lose. It was inevitable, a dialectic. The prophesy has been revelated many a time, that the One who speaks the Unholy Word first loses.

I gained confidence, a blessed glow now surrounding me. A low gutteral moan rose from behind Me as I ordered My Men to stand down, knowing that their Mighty Rods of Harlot Smiting would not be needed and could be put away for another battle. In fact, growls of pain emerged from several of them.

"Be gone, swinish vixen," I cried, "Your day is past, and no more shall you roam these halls." She shrank, did the Ant Queen, almost into nothingness, scurrying away into spaces where we could not hope to follow, her power diminished by her resort to the Unholy Word. I knew then that we would not see her kind for many a moon.

We withdrew from this vile lair, slowing only to collect our many wounded and to pray over our many dead, martyrs to the cause of Jesus, trying only to sacrifice Their Seed that others might enjoy a simple moment of silence in their schools, public monuments, and Motor Vehicle Administrations, or a Saturday unmolested by the Sabbath of nonbelievers, or a nice bacon cheeseburger, content in the knowledge that Theirs is the True Faith. Our prisoners we rounded up and sent for nice soothing showers, and we sealed the entrance to these foul chambers with a dome of salt.

And we wait, wait for these fiends to scamper across our kitchen counters yet again. Persistent they are in their blasphemy, their sacrilege odiferous to all who follow the trumpets of the righteous. For we are the power and the light and the glory and the marzipan, forever and ever, Amen.