When the signal went up, the lookouts in the hills would allow no delay. They knew their mission: their life meant nothing except for moments like this. The attack was on, the enemy had shown a weakness, and the entire countryside was like a tightly wound coil, ready to explode into action at the opportunity.

One messenger relayed the word to two, two to four, four to eight, and the word went streaming throughout the land, even into the forest of Petrified Veal. Even the children grabbed their pointy sticks. And in the designated assembly areas, first in trickles, then in mobs, the army assembled, and the cry went up, the cry of vengeance: "We are the earwigs, we are the FEARwigs!"

The bloodthirsty congregation set off at breakneck speed, pausing only as it approached the target. In a clearing, unawares, a crew of hamsters was sleeping off a mighty load. The scene that followed was too grisly to describe here; suffice it to say that there were numerous tiny cries of "Tastes just like chicken!" until well into the morning. And many little earwigs were conceived in the celebrations that followed, safely back home.

This went on for many years, until at last only the old, stringy, tough hamsters were left, and then there were, at last, none. The earwigs, having completed the final mission for which they had been designed, left the world for happier days, and the last of the ants had the last laugh after all.