Several miles away, in the thicket of weeds on a small hillock, was a soldier, and he held an M1 garand. Sighting a large, ugly locust, he pulled the rigger. His rifle rang and the noise of it scattered birds all around. Recovering from the recoil, he smiled from ear-to-ear.
It's head had split like a melon.
The blood spurting in gouts of dark red, splattering on the ground and clotting in the grass. The soldier tipped back his helmet and smiled again. Standing, he stuck the butt of his rifle into the ground and leaned on it. Laughing, he pulled out a thermos of Mother's Homebrewed Coffee and poured into a cup.
Sipping contently, he tucked it away after slurping the dredges of coffee grounds. And took aim once more. For kicks, he then shot the other seven rounds into the body of the locust thing.
First, he blew it's arm off from the elbow, and then the other arm, followed by each of his legs, and then pumped the last rounds into it's gut.
"He won't be comin' back soon."
The soldier then walked away, laughing, and making more coffee.