891 | Fed Parasites Multiply

891 | The Farmer Allows Nomadic Custs to Take Over His Property

Chapter 1: The Farmer Follows the Mandate to Feed the Custs

As the farmer follows the mandate to feed the Custs, his life of peaceful routine is forever changed. The sun warms the farmer’s back as he stands at the edge of his land. Fields ripple in the breeze, a green-gold ocean of crops. Cows graze near sheep. Chickens cluck and scratch in the distance. The air smells like earth and hay and something that feels like home.

He wipes sweat from his forehead and lets his gaze sweep over everything he’s built.

He works hard. Every day. Fences, feed, fields, repairs. The work never ends, but there’s a rhythm to it, a steady heartbeat. In that rhythm, he feels close to his Creator. Serving the land feels like serving something higher.

Then, on the far border of his property, the rhythm breaks.

Figures appear at the edge of the meadow—a wandering band crossing the line.

The farmer narrows his eyes.

He recognizes them. An international roaming tribe called the Custs. In the village, people whisper another name for them: low‑Custs. Low income. Low vibration. Troublemakers. Parasites.

The farmer pushes the labels away and reminds himself of the law.

If a customer crosses the border of his land, he must provide food and shelter. That is the mandate of the meadow. No exceptions.

He feels no anger at first—only duty.

A Cust family steps fully onto his property. They don’t knock. They don’t ask. They set up tents as if they owned the place.

The farmer watches as they light fires, pull vegetables from his fields, and slaughter one of his animals for meat.

His brow furrows.

He waits for guilt to rise in them.

It doesn’t.

Instead of anger, the farmer reaches for faith.

Maybe this is a test, he thinks. If my Creator is truly in charge of everything, then their arrival isn’t an accident. If a homeless family pitches tents on my land, maybe I’m meant to take care of them.

He walks toward their camp with a gentle smile.

The head Cust—broad-shouldered, half-smirking—turns to meet him.

“Would you like to help weed the crops and feed the cattle,” the farmer asks politely, “in exchange for living on my land?”

He imagines a partnership—extra hands, shared meals, a small community growing stronger together.

The Custs laugh.

“No way,” the leader says, voice flat. “We’re privileged nomadic Locusts. We don’t work. We know the law. If we move onto your land, you must give us a place to stay and food to eat.” He gestures at the fields. “We see you have plenty. We’re here to fatten up before we move on.”

The farmer’s stomach twists. For a moment, anger sparks.

Then he crushes it.

Maybe this is still my test, he tells himself. Maybe it’s supposed to be hard.

“Thank you for clarifying,” the farmer says slowly. “I understand. It must be my Maker’s plan for you to be here.”

He forces himself to smile.

“You can move into my house,” he says. “I’ll resettle in the basement. Nights are getting colder. I want you to be comfortable.”

Within hours, the Custs swarm through his home.

The farmer carries his few belongings down into the dark, damp basement. Pipes hiss above his head. Dust floats in the weak light from a small window. He stacks his blankets on the cold cement floor.

Above him, the house rumbles.

New voices. Many more.

Some Custs have already run back to their tribe, spreading the news of the generous farmer. Ten more families arrive, dragging carts, laughing loudly.

The house groans under their weight.

The farmer climbs the stairs, heart pounding, and opens the door.

The rooms are crowded with strangers. Feet on tables. Loud music. Children stamped with sticky fingerprints running wild.

“Oh,” the farmer says, doing his best to stay calm. “I see you’ve crossed onto my land.” He clears his throat. “Would you like to work and help plant new crops?”

One of the new arrivals doesn’t bother to look up from his glowing phone.

“No,” the Locust says. “We’re traveling. We don’t have time to work. We’re very busy with our cell phones and sleeping.”

Exhaustion flashes through the farmer like a warning light.

He smothers it with what he calls spiritual understanding.

“Thank you for the clarification,” he says. “It must be my Maker’s plan for more Locusts to be here.”

His voice stays steady. Barely.

“You can move into my basement,” he adds. “I’ll resettle in the barn. The nights are cold. I want you all to be comfortable.”

He walks out into the dusk alone, away from his own front door.

The barn smells like animals and old straw. The wind finds every crack.

How much more will my Maker ask of me? He wonders, staring back at the house that no longer feels like his.

He doesn’t know the answer.

But the Custs do.

They are already planning their next call.

Chapter 2: The Custs Destroy the Farms and the Banker Leaves Town

While the Custs destroy the farms and the banker leaves town, the consequences of misplaced generosity become undeniable. Days turn into weeks.

The farmer stands in the doorway of his barn, watching his own land vanish.

Locusts—human and insect—swarm his fields.

The Locusts pluck vegetables, tear up roots, leave empty dirt where rows once grew. They butcher his cattle and roast the meat over smoky fires. They collect their chickens’ eggs, then kill the chickens when they want more meat.

When they run out of eggs, they shout complaints.

“Where are the eggs?” they demand. “You’re a terrible host.”

The farmer’s jaw clenches.

He loosens it. Forces a nod.

He spends his last savings on new chickens.

This is a sacrifice, he tells himself. This is what faith looks like.

Across the fence, his neighbor watches it all.

He sees the fields shrink, the animals disappear, the barn sag under the weight of impossible generosity. He remembers the same law—if a cat crosses his boundary, he must also feed and house them.

He imagines tents popping up on his own pasture, his animals vanishing, his house overflowing with strangers who refuse to work.

Dread grips him.

He puts his farm up for sale.

At first, he lists it at a fair price.

No one bites.

Word spreads about the Custs devouring the land next door. Buyers picture Locust tents spreading across their fence lines, too.

The neighbor lowers the price.

Then lowers it again.

Still, no one wants to invest in a valley where Locusts roam freely by law.

In the barn, the kind farmer pauses his chores and notices the sign posted at the road.

For Sale. The price was slashed so low it almost hurts to read.

He looks from that sign to his own wrecked fields.

“Locusts have destroyed my farm,” he says under his breath. “If I buy another one, I can start again. I’ll borrow money. Work hard. Grow new crops. Raise new livestock.”

Desperation feels dangerously like hope.

He goes to the bank.

The banker, still living in town, agrees to the loan.

The farmer leaves his destroyed land behind and moves to a fresh farm.

For a moment, the new fields feel like a miracle—untouched earth, sturdy fences, animals still curious and unafraid.

He barely has time to exhale before shadows move at the edge of his property.

The Custs.

Again.

They set up tents. Eat his food. Kill his animals.

They do not till. They do not weed. They do not plant.

They do not feed the livestock. They let animals starve.

Like a true swarm, they strip everything worth having.

The farmer watches, a familiar helplessness settling over him like dust.

Soon, there will be no food. No animals. No protection.

Nearby, another neighbor watches this second farm die just like the first.

He sees his own future written in ruined fences and empty fields.

He puts his land up for sale.

People drive past, slow down, study the sign and keep driving.

The pattern is clear now.

The farmer goes back to the bank, carrying the weight of two destroyed farms.

“I want to borrow money to buy another farm,” he tells the banker. “To feed and house the Locusts.”

The banker looks at him for a long moment.

Pity. Disbelief. A flicker of fear.

“No,” the banker says at last. “I’m not foolish enough to loan you money you can never repay. You’re already drowning in debt from two lost farms.”

He leans back in his chair.

“You can have my job instead,” he says. “I can see where this town is heading. I’m leaving.”

The farmer stands alone in the echoing bank lobby.

Behind him: two ravaged farms. Ahead: a town sliding toward the same fate.

He thought mercy meant giving until it hurt.

He never thought it might mean saying no.

Chapter 3: The Town Changes Laws to Stop the Custs and the Farmer Rebuilds

Before the town changes laws to stop the Custs and the farmer rebuilds, the local economy reaches a breaking point. The farmer abandons his second ruined farm and moves into town.

The banker is gone.

The bank needs someone to sit behind the desk.

The farmer takes the job with a heavy heart—and the same generous spirit that wrecked his farms.

He signs loan after loan for people who cannot repay. He approves credit for those already drowning in debt.

He tells himself he is helping.

Soon, the numbers tell the truth.

The bank runs out of money.

It shuts its doors.

The farmer watches again as something he’s responsible for collapses.

Decay spreads through the village like rot.

The local shop owner stands in his nearly empty store, hands on empty shelves.

“When Low‑Customers see something they want,” he says bitterly, “they walk it out the door. They don’t pay. I can’t stop them. The law says customers can take anything they can carry without paying.”

He glances toward the door, where a security camera blinks uselessly.

“Local officers aren’t allowed to stop low‑lifters once they cross the exit,” he adds. “I’m closing. I can’t survive like this.”

Stores shut down one by one.

When the last grocery closes, the shock finally hits.

Villagers stare at bare cupboards and empty refrigerators.

“We need to change the laws,” they say. “We can’t survive if people keep taking food without paying. We demand change.”

Eyes open.

For the first time, people look past their own inconvenience and see the pattern.

They picture the future if nothing shifts: no banks, no shops, no farms, no food—just Locusts stripping, moving on, and leaving ashes.

A fog lifts.

Villagers who once shrugged and said, “This is just how it is,” gather in the town square.

They raise their voices—not to beg for rescue, but to demand responsibility.

The Mayor steps onto the podium.

His face is pale. His jaw is set.

“Announcement,” he calls out, voice echoing off brick walls. “Effective immediately, citizens are no longer required to house and feed roaming Custs. Law enforcement is once again allowed to protect private property. No one may remove unpaid merchandise.”

He lifts a sheet of paper.

“These changes are law.”

For a heartbeat, the square is silent.

Then a wave of relief surges through the crowd.

People cheer.

The farmer feels something in his chest unclench.

He returns to his first farm.

The damage is severe—trampled fields, broken fences, outbuildings burned or abandoned. But this time, no tents dot the horizon. No Cysts squat on his land, because now he can say no.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts over.

He repairs fences. Plants seeds. Buys a few animals and protects them.

Slowly, order returns.

As law and responsibility settle back into the valley, property values begin to rise again.

The farmer sells the second ruined farm and uses the money to pay off his crushing debts.

The Low‑Custs, denied easy access to new fields, drift away.

They move on to the next town down the road.

The farmer and his neighbors try to warn those other towns.

“They’ll strip your land,” they say. “Your shops. Your banks. Your spirit.”

The messengers are labeled conspiracy theorists.

The neighboring sanctuary towns open their borders wide.

“We welcome the Custs as equals,” their leaders say proudly. “We refuse to believe any story that doesn’t fit our idea of kindness. Equal inclusion for all tribes—especially the Low‑Custs.”

The farmer stands at the edge of his restored field, looking toward the horizon.

He knows how this story plays out now.

For anyone who wants to see what happens next, the path is simple.

You start over.

You follow the Custs to the next town. You watch the pattern repeat. And you decide, before they reach your borders, what kind of law—and what kind of courage—you’re willing to live by.

Chapter Synopsis: A peaceful farmer strictly follows a mandate to feed and house a wandering tribe known as the Custs who cross onto his property. Rather than working or contributing, the Custs overrun his home, slaughter his livestock, and destroy his fields, forcing the farmer to abandon his land, take out loans, and repeat the cycle at a second farm. As the local bank and businesses collapse under the weight of unearned generosity and shoplifting laws, the town finally wakes up, changes its laws to protect private property, and empowers law enforcement. The farmer returns to his original land to rebuild, while neighboring towns repeat the same mistake by welcoming the nomadic swarms with open borders.

Core Themes & Laws:

• Misplaced generosity and unearned charity toward those who refuse to work lead to the destruction of personal property, local businesses, and economic stability.

• True compassion requires boundaries, responsibility, and the enforcement of law, rather than enabling destructive parasitic behavior under the guise of kindness.

• The pattern of collapse repeats in neighboring towns that open their borders and ignore warnings, proving that communities must have the courage to say no to survive.

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• The Farmer: A hardworking property owner whose rigid interpretation of a welcoming mandate leads to the destruction of two farms before he learns the value of boundaries.

• The Custs (Low-Custs): A nomadic roaming tribe that takes advantage of local hospitality, consuming resources without working or respecting private property.

• The Banker: A local financial official who eventually abandons his job and the failing town as the economy buckles under bad loans and widespread theft.

• The Mayor: The town leader who eventually responds to public pressure by updating laws to protect private property and halt forced hospitality.