Norman was small for his age. This didn’t bother him, though. Norman was as tough as nails and ready for anything. And, as Norman would soon discover, his anything was just around the corner. But before I get into that, let’s back up a little.
Norman was a parasitic nematode. As a member in good standing of the Heterorhabditis bacteriophora Clan or Hb Clan for short, Norman was automatically given due respect in his neighborhood (or ‘hood as Norman used to say). The Hb Clan was well known for it members’ agility, strength and versatility. The Hbs all wore tough leather-like jackets; and all were Fonzi-cool.
Not everyone was allowed into the Hbs. You had to pass an initiation or hazing when you were old enough. The clan required its nearly-adult members to submit to an underground adventure of sorts. They were told to leave the safety of the Hb Clan’s headquarters — which, by the way, was the carved out rotting remains of a beetle grub. The task was to locate and subdue a new headquarters cadaver without being fried by the sun or dehydrated to death. The place: Sodville, Willoughby or any other nearby stop in The Root Zone. The time: now.
As had his brethren and forebears, Norman complied. Snaking his way along myriad uncharted passageways, trying with all his might to pierce the unrelenting darkness, Norman desperately hunted his quarry. However, Norman, always trying hard to impress those he emulated, wasn’t just after any headquarters host, he was after the coveted, roomy and impressive Japanese beetle grub. And he could feel it in his gut; he was getting close.
Normy scores! “One super-grub coming up,” he shouted to no one in particular in the darkness. A few of his cohorts heard Norman’s muffled war cry in the distant darkness and began looking for him. Meanwhile, Norman valiantly struggled with his huge grub’s tough hide, trying to find ingress, as he seemed to have no luck finding a clear portal inside. Fortunately, Norman, like all Hb Clan members, carried a knife with him at all times.
Norman cut his way through the soon-to-be-new headquarters’ tough exterior exposing the soft and supple flesh beneath. Just as Norman was about to enter the grub and claim victory for himself and his tribe, his contemporaries rounded the bend in a blended whoop of war cries and jubilation. However, upon setting their eyes on Norman smiling and posing next to the frightened grub, they stopped dead in their tracks as a hush filled the space once occupied by their din. Something was different. Something was amiss. Norman was still the Norman they all knew and liked, yet he was somehow different. He was now… uh, grown, matured or… something.
They now slowly approach Norm with timidity and reverence. They seemed to admire Norman’s new posture. They carefully hoisted Norman on their shoulders and carried him into the grub. Together, as their last hurrah as teenagers, before fully entering adulthood, they subdued and ravaged the grub.
A few days later, Norman, now a magnificent example of an adult nematode, and his well-fed grub-buddies, also grown now, swaggered back to the old headquarters grub to share their tale of triumph over the super-grub. Well news travels fast in the dirt kingdom. Norman’s forefathers had already heard the saga and were duly impressed. When Norman the nematode walked through the opening, ahead of the pack, the tribal leaders, in unison, spoke only two words: “Hey, Norm!“
