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TITLE: A Tale of Organic War
AUTHOR: SpillingVelvet
ORIGINAL STORY: Fear Of Fridges by ripsgirl

DISCLAIMER: The author makes no claims or inferences to reality or truthfulness. Moreover, this story is based upon the work of another author and recognises their creation.

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It never ends, you know. The battles. The endless, destructive war. We reclaim one small patch of territory from the Moulds, and in sweeps the Great Hands and their great chemicals and we go back to the beginning.

We are of an old tribe, precious. The Colony. From the very oldest strain brought here months ago in the Great Kung Po. And what a strain we used to be. Strong. Lasting. The weak bacterium of today puts our ancestors to shame.

It used to be that we withstood everything They threw at us. The poisons we released to keep the Moulds away were potent. It used to be that we could spread our DNA across the collective with astonishing speed. New resistance and mutations were transferred down to new generations and through existing genes within six hours.

It takes us many more now, precious, and we are slowing with lazy age.

And then came the Blue-eyed Boy and he was scared. He used chemicals on us, and awful powders. They burned our tiny bodies.

But somehow, we manage to persevere.

He's been gone now, for weeks. We took the opportunity and waged an all-out attack on the Fresh. The Bacons were no match for us. Too much moisture, not enough salt. We set in on the Fat with voracity. Endless replication and division.

We reduced it to a festering pile of goo in less than twelve days.

The Boy was smarter with the Carrots, my love. But not smart enough. He cleaned the Fresh well, he did, but he was careless with his placement.

What used to be the bacon dripped, precious, and we crossed the clean barriers. Once upon that sweet, orange flesh, we set out like the starving warriors we've been for many centuries. Pillaging the small, rigid cells with relentless vigor. Cucumber followed, and then Strawberries.

We are good at what we do, my love.

The Spaghetti Sauce put up a good fight for our enemies, the Moulds. There were Preservatives in the tomato goop. But there are limits on such defenses, and we have all the time in the world. They waited, precious, and planned their assault diligently whilst we slipped into the Milk. We left it to them to wait and watch; we take action while elsewhere there is idle threat. Milk turned to curdle to primative cheese.

Time ran out for the Moulds.

We attacked from our position under the rim of the crusty lid. Our poisons were getting stronger and more effective against the Moulds. We were winning.

We would have conquered the entire jar, were it not for the Two.

They came in fast, pulling our precious battlefields from the Box with no ceremony, no respect. They spoke with disgust in their voices. We found our Colony split between the Box and the Trash. But we mourned little for our fallen comrades, knowing they were on their way to delicious mounds of flesh and fruit and dairy. Their entire lives spent feeding in the damp dark, under a crust of others junk.

The Two did not use the powders, precious, nor the liquid pain. They threw our brethren away and left us to our stark, barren surfaces. We planned, we did. We retreated to our corners.

And we will strike again, my love, for they have left Beer.

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