The deer tick lives in a cave in the mountains and can barely sustain himself. He's an ungrateful parasite that enjoys himself only when he's feeding off another. When the tables are turned he's nasty and mean. A stomper and a slammer of doors. An ineffectual thwarter of his perceived tormentor. Sure, he talks a good game. Burps up his food and suggests it is best to be a giver than a receiver. Conveniently forgetting what's been done for him. Debts forgiven. Gifts. Everything.
Thank God they make a pesticide for his type. It's also a good idea to avoid his habitat. It smells there anyway. Of the deceased and soon to be deceased. Just like any dream he ever had. Just like piss down a rope.
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