I think people always expected that when the time came for us to go extinct, we'd go down all quietlike—that just because we're small blue butterflies with a wingspan of an inch, we wouldn't put up a fight. Well, I can assure you that before my kind dies out there will be a reckoning. Blood will run in the streets. Human blood.

I swear to you on all that is good and holy that before the Karner blue goes extinct, myself and the last remaining members of my species will take out as much of the human race as we possibly can. There will be mayhem. Children will die. People will suffer.

You can take that to the bank.

I know when you look at me all you see is a pretty little insect with a taste for the nectar of wild lupine plants. Sure, you can comfort yourself with that thought, but I tell you what: You put my species's back against the wall and you are going to see another side of this butterfly. One that has a can of gasoline, a match, and is pissed off enough to light up you and everyone you know.

Here's the thing: I'm actually fine with going extinct. I've accepted death. Not only do I have nothing to lose, but I don't give a fuck about you, me, or anyone. And I certainly don't give a fuck about the people who are killing us off. It's kill or be killed, and I plan on killing a bunch of humans before my time is up, preferably with a couple shotgun blasts right to their heads.

You think I'm kidding around? Keep messing with my habitat. Keep developing land and messing with my migratory patterns so that my food sources become even scarcer. Yeah, just keep on doing that and one night you're going to wake up with a knife to your throat as me and my last remaining friends force you to watch while we strangle your wife and kids.

Maybe then you'll take land conservation a little more seriously. But you know what? It will be too late because blood will be gushing out of a hole in your neck.

And guess what we'll be doing while you're gasping for air? Fluttering around and laughing our asses off as you pathetically gurgle for help. Why will you be gurgling? Because of all the blood coming out of your throat and mouth—that's why.

I guarantee the majority of you will die slowly and painfully, like my brothers who starved to death because you just had to go and disrupt our habitat. And you know what that means? It means we are going to tie you down and force you to ingest toxic chemicals that methodically eat away at your insides.

We already got all the poisons from a bunch of hardware stores, and we're mixing them together as we speak. The concoction will be so potent it will burn holes through your pancreas, liver, and lungs. Sure, that won't make up for the fact that you've destroyed my entire species, but knowing that you keeled over in pain right in front of your children will at least give me and my kind one last moment of deep satisfaction.

And the look on your children's faces is going to be priceless. They're going to be super fucked-up because of us. They're going to need therapy. And even then, they'll probably all commit suicide later on in life, still haunted from the memories.

The thing that really pisses me off is that it shouldn't even have to come to this. We're the state butterfly of New Hampshire. Don't we deserve a little more respect? I guess not. I guess the town of Rollinsford is going to be bombed off the face of this planet. Why Rollinsford? It doesn't fucking matter, because it's gone. Up in smoke. And there will be nothing you or anyone else can do about it except wring your hands and wonder why you didn't take care of your friend the Karner blue butterfly, who only wanted to help pollinate your plants but is now howling for your blood.

Oh, and you read that right, the Karner blues are making bombs. Three of them. To be honest, it's going to take us a while to build them. While butterflies are smart enough to develop foraging routes, it takes us a long time to assemble things as complex as a bomb. But three bombs: one for the fuckers in Rollinsford, one for a major metropolis, and one to take out the Lepidopterists' Society's annual meeting. They could have done something about this but they failed.

So, I'll give you one last warning, because this doesn't have to happen. If I were you, I'd seriously consider stepping up your conservation efforts, unless of course you want your buildings blown up and your people butterfly-gang-raped.