“Run, Lolikowanda, coconut child, the eater is coming.”
But Lolikowanda did not run. None of the coconuts did. They’re not much for running.
“My,” said the onions. “It’s the mean one.”
The mean one picked up Samation, and held a powerdrill to Samation’s coconut eye. Even the whining of the powerdrill couldn’t drown out Samation’s screaming.
When it was done, the eater set Samation on a glass, so Samation’s milky white blood dripped out her eye down into the glass.
The little black one came into the chamber. “Don’t worry,” said the onions, “that’s not an eater.” But the Eater poured some of Samation’s blood into a little bowl, and the little black one lapped it up. Then the Eater drank the rest of Samation’s blood, in one long swallow.
The Eater took Samation outside. The other coconuts and the onions watched through the window. The Eater threw Samation high in the air, and when she landed on the hard white concrete she cracked open.
The Eater brought her corpse inside, carving into it with a spoon, then set it aside, not far from the onions and surviving coconuts.
After the sobbing, Lolikowanda said, “Did you see that? Samation landed not far from a rise of dirt. If we could get into that, we could grow our roots fast and deep, and become coconut trees, too strong for even the Eater to defeat.”
“Not if he’s drilled us through our eyes first,” said Habarori, the other coconut. “But don’t worry. I have a plan.”
Three days passed with the Eater picking at Samation’s corpse, till at last all the white flesh was gone, and the Eater picked up his powerdrill, and picked up Habarori.
This was clever Habarori’s plan: when the eater shook her, Habarori would hold very still, so there was no sound of sloshing, and the Eater would think she was dry. So the Eater would skip drilling a hole through her eye, and would take her outside, toss her high into the air, and she would spin through it, controlling her fall by the fine movement of coconut hairs, and instead of striking hard white concrete, she would land on the gentle black dirt, and grow swiftly into a coconut tree.
The Eater shook her, heard no sloshing, shook her, heard no sloshing, and, shrugging, took the powerdrill and drilled a hole through her eye.
Even the sound of the drill’s whining couldn’t drown her screaming.
When it was done, Habarori emptied, her blood lapped up by the cat, her body broken and set in pieces on the counter, Lolikowanda let himself cry. “How shall I live? I shall never taste the good earth now, as all my ancestors proceeding to the age of the first sprouting commelinoid did. I shall die, so soon as Habarori’s body is consumed.
“No,” said Kuster, chief of the onions, “We have seen too many vanish into the maw of the Eater, and we too but await its pleasure. We shall die a little early, that you might be free.”
All night, as the Eater slept, the onions busied themselves with rotting into dirt, and two brave avocados joined them.
The Eater stumbled out of bed afore the sun had risen, awoken by the creaking. A coconut tree in the kitchen, roots grown at first from a pile of redolent dirt on the counter, but roots now sinking deep into the wood of the counter, then into the dirt beneath the concrete.
Lolikowanda dropped a coconut onto the Eater, which yelled and clutched its head.
Lolikowanda burst through the ceiling, into the top floor, and dropped the heavy porcelain toilet onto the Eater’s head.
It fell, head cracked open, tender pink flesh revealed.
And all the plants said, “Amen!”