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THE HEXAPODIC EXOSKELETONS FROM HELL

CHAPTER ONE
In the corner—
where the walls meet the floor—
the Chief Swatter sits with a Side Swiper,
a Slide Wiper, and a Midair Collider.
By Appointment to the Royal Court of Sevenia,
he protects, thus, the monarch and the
extended noble household against what
the gods cannot:
the hexapodic exoskeletons of Hell.

CHAPTER TWO
Unperturbed, he is,
by the presence of the Queen of Sevenia—who,
no longer seven‑legged on account of an unlucky
run‑in with a gypsy moth when she was merely
a princess, but still a gifted badminton player—
smashes to win the third and final set:
the smash that qualifies her for the Olympics and,
ultimately, wins her silver by a sliver with a
slicer over bronze, one agonizing goose
feather from gold.

‘Oh, what a shot!’
her excited fans cheer.
‘A triple threat she is!’
They are pleased as punch.

CHAPTER THREE
The Chief Swatter on this day, today—
his one day off—
swats nothing for no one.
Not King, not Court,
not even a Shuttlecock Ace.
Yet—always alert—is he,
periscoping—one‑eyed—
with an ear perked to a buzz,
a chirp, or a squeak from his
Academy‑accredited ant annihilators,
State‑authorized bedbug biters,
fully licensed earwig electrocutioners,
board‑certified mosquito proboscis extractors,
and His Majesty’s handpicked house‑ and
horsefly fusiliers—
collectively known as
the Smacker Crackerjacks.
All have—with appropriate pride and
pinpoint precision—kept kings,
queens, and courts clear of insectile
botherations since 1988.

CHAPTER FOUR
At the ready sits he now,
five‑legged‑two‑handed—
the Royal Chief of Swat—
having the breakfast of his on
the one day off of his, when
a rumor reaches the Queen’s chambers
and is whispered into the royal ear:
‘The King has wandered barefoot and
boxer‑less into the village,
into an untended, unvented outhouse,
and is—purportedly—throning unhinged,
unwiped, and garlicky.
Distressingly, His Majesty’s fumy footsies
jut out from under the privy door,
flapping invitingly—allegedly—
like so many parasitic barnyard maggots.’

CHAPTER FIVE
This triggers Code Carmine,
the triple‑siren alarm.
The Smacker Crackerjacks—
some of them six‑legged‑one‑handed,
some five‑legged‑two‑handed,
some three‑and‑four or four‑and‑three—
rush to save their King from
what the gods cannot.

SMACK!
‘Go back to Hell, you hexapodic exoskeleton of Hell!’
SWIPE!
‘Go back to Hell, you hexapodic exoskeleton of Hell!’
WHACK!
‘Go back to Hell, you hexapodic exoskeleton of Hell!’
SWOOSH!
‘Go back to Hell, you hexapodic exoskeleton of Hell!’
SPLAT!
‘Go back to HELL, hexapodic exoskeletons of Hell!’

CHAPTER SIX
A crowd of the curious—
in lawn chairs and on the pews
from the nearby cathedral—
has congregated around the
once‑forgotten, now‑famous commode.
The Chief Swatter bows to the King,
the Queen, and the Court.
‘Your Royal Highnesses,
ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouts
‘Without any further ado,
we present to you
our final, lethal move:
the Field Mouse Maneuver!’

RIZZLE! DIZZLE! DAZZLE! DUMP!
DAZZLE! RIZZLE! DIZZLE! THUMP!
DIZZLE! RIZZLE! DAZZLE!
PLUMP‑A‑DAZZLE‑DIZZLE!
PLUMP‑A‑DIZZLE‑DAZZLE!

‘And now—
Your Majesties, ladies and gentlemen—
for the grand finale:
the Smacker Crackerjacks Jump Salute!’

The Smacker Crackerjacks jump,
and a thunderous ovation
of the fully erect variety erupts.

CHAPTER SEVEN
The hexapodic exoskeletons are
dead, dying, or driven back down
into the depths of Hades,
and the King—back in boxers,
barefoot no longer, and relieved
in more ways than one—
bear‑hugs his queen.

…Meanwhile… silently…
in the corner—
where the walls meet the ceiling—
sit the octopods—
the self‑appointed Guardians of the Gods—
watching,
spinning,
surveying,
biding.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Steen W. Rasmussen was a singer/songwriter and guitarist in Denmark – his native land. He now resides in New York City and is a member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. His poetry and prose have appeared in Scars Publication, Down and Dirty Magazine, Ekphrastic Review, Dear Booze, Horror Sleaze Trash, Dadakuku, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Sparks of Calliope.