The Sateré Mawé
This site, true to it's insectophobia, has routinely and sufficiently demonstrated the evils of bugs in many of its writings. However, I think it's about time to show the viewing public something truly unprecedented and awe-inspiring - human bravery in the face of diabolical insects. But first we must become acquainted with the main antagonist: Paraponera Clavata.
Holy fucking shit.
Otherwise known as the Bullet Ant, this little spawn of Satan has that name for a very goddamned good reason: its venom is a deadly neurotoxin that causes violent and ungodly pain (like a bullet - get it?) for over 24 hours. According to the long-winded research paper of some old and crusty entomologist who I am just quoting for jollies and to compensate for my child-like intellect, additional symptoms of a Bullet Ant sting may also include "systemic manifestations [such] as fever, trembling, cold sweating, nausea, vomiting, lymphadenopathy and cardiac arrhythmias." Did I mention it fucking hurts? Well apparently there is an objective measure of pain caused by insect stings called the Schmidt Pain Index, and the Bullet Ant's sting is rated as the most painful among all known insects.
They're also huge fucking ants. Scary.
A huge fucking ant.
Deadly neurotoxin, voracious appetite, and unimaginable size, the Bullet Ant is not one to be fucked with lightly. I suppose pure, overwhelming evil isn't limited to one continent. I mean seriously, what - or who - could possibly stand before the apocalyptic wrath of Paraponera Clavata?
These guys. That's fucking who. The Sateré-Mawé are a small, indigenous Amazonian tribe who look certain death in the eye and stand their ground, whereas even the most cutthroat of pagan warlords would certainly turn tail and pee themselves like a little weak-wristed mongrel.
These bold fools use Bullet Ants as integral parts of their particular manhood rituals. The village shaman will collect a hive's worth of the ant-demons and drug them unconscious. He then weaves the ants into a bunch of wicker gloves so that their stingers and mandibles protrude out of every angle. Then the death ritual begins.
All boys who wish to ascend to manhood must WEAR THESE GLOVES with angry, venom-laced hell-bugs for over 30 minutes. They must endure the white-hot pain without showing any signs of discomfort, or they will have to start the ritual over from the beginning. Once the ritual is over, many times the hands and limbs of the prospective men violently spasm for days after the ceremony.
And then they have to do it 24 more times. Yes, that's right. In order to fully ascend to the highest rank of the tribal hierarchy (Level +10 neutral evil warlock), Sateré-Mawé adolescent males have to brave this immeasurable agony at least 25 times. And you thought Paul Atreides was badass for sticking his hand in that weird-ass Bene Gesserit pain machine, or whatever those fucking crazy bald-headed women call it. Fuck that. He didn't have eight tons of ridiculously powerful ant venom coursing through his veins, and he only had to do it once. The Sateré-Mawé totally pwn everyone in the arena of pain endurance, and the sooner we come to our senses and admit this truth, the better off we'll be. God, the Sateré-Mawé are totally badass.
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