A “bachelor party,” when brought up within a modern pseudo-humorous narrative, is invariably a euphemism for tawdry, regrettable erotic escapades. (This is not always true in real life; I’m sure yours was classy and not at all actionable.) Thus, I’m going to go ahead and assume that the bachelor ant here is planning on saddling this grasshopper as a prelude to some gross inter-species insect sex stuff. Whatever, let him have his fun, ants are one of those species where the males die right after mating, right? I was going to look that up, but I’ve never liked the ant characters in B.C. so I’m just going to go ahead and assume that it’s true.
I’m not sure why, but I find the retreating back of our Christmas Tree proprietor deeply unnerving. Maybe it’s the look of genuine horror on Crankshaft’s granddaughters face. It seems like he’s slowly and deliberately going to fetch his ax, and then, as predicted, he’s going take his payment in limbs.