One day she was helping with the hatching of the new Princes and Princesses. The newly hatched royalty were carried out to a big flat rock where they were being launched for their wedding flight. The rock was completely surrounded by hostile ants. 

If a new ant was not perfectly formed, (say a leg was missing),  it was carried off and eaten by the scavengers around the rock. 
Hundreds were launched; and even if they were successful in becoming airborne they were not home-free either. The sky above was filled with hungry swarming seagulls waiting for lunch to come up to them.  

One day Antoinette's life changed abruptly. She was looking for food at a human picnic site. She inadvertently crawled over a luminescent wristwatch that had radium on it's dial. 

Wow!! Instant FM! 

She was picking up a radio talk show on her antennae; what's more, she could understand it! Later when she crawled over a newspaper she found that she could read it. 

Not only her receptive skills were enhanced that day, she also developed an artistic flair. SHE COULD DRAW!!. The need to draw things became overpowering. She started to draw shapes and creatures in the sand. Due to the shifting nature of her sandy medium, she learned to draw things quickly. 

One day in the park she found an abandoned artist's sketch pad and charcoal. The previous owner had left them in  preference to missing a promissory dalliance with his new girlfriend. Ant was ecstatic, she looked around frantically for a subject to draw. 

On a nearby bench was an old man sleeping in the sun. Ant worked with a speed that even she had trouble believing. She seemed to dance over the paper. When she was finished, she stepped back to admire her work. She signed her drawing in the bottom left corner... "Ant" (short for Antoinette). She then abandoned the sketch, and returned  to her menial colony work. She spent the rest of the day hunting for food. She understood the need of  the colony to get more food.  The members of her colony, in return, also appreciated her artistic urges. 

The next day she went on another intrusive picnic raid in the park. (A picnic without ants is like a storm without clouds). Antoinette was in a group that was laying siege to the doughnuts. She was carrying a crumb back to the colony when her antenna picked up an interview on the radio.  She ducked under a leaf to be able to listen very carefully to it. 

An art critic was taking about the work of a new artist that he had discovered in the park near his house. 

"I have not actually met him yet. I have seen evidence of his greatness in a charcoal drawing of an old man sleeping on a park bench.  The detail on this drawing is terrific. He must have taken a long time to do this piece.  It was signed "Ant" so I assume his name is Anthony. If anyone knows him please ask him to contact me." 

He followed this by giving his name, address and telephone number. 
Antoinette threw a fit, and called him an idiot for not appreciating that "Ant" stood for Antoinette. 

When she calmed down, she realize that she had been equally presumptuous;  "Ant" could just as easily have stood for ant, and she was not a very good one, as she had eaten the crumb that she had been carrying. 

She finally decided to go back to the picnic and to be a good ant for rest of the day. She would find the art critic the next day and set him straight. 

The next morning, she went looking for him. She knew his telephone number but that didn't do her any good; (ants don't have enough loot to afford a telephone, and certainly not enough  mass to dial a touch-tone receiver!!). Fortunately she also knew his address; it was right next to the park where she lived. 

She boldly walked under his front door, and checked his mail on the floor to make sure that she was in the right place. She looked in the front hall, the living room, and the kitchen; she didn't find him, but in the dining room she noticed his sketch pad. This would be an invaluable way to communicate with him. 

She continued to explore the rest of the house and finally found him in the bedroom. She knew he was one of  the two people on the bed. 

Fixing the scene in her mind, she raced down to the drawing pad in the dining room. She danced over the pad, and reproduced the scene that she had seen. She signed it "Ant" to let him know that she had been there, then she left to go back to work for the colony. 

She missed the fight which started after the girlfriend of the art critic discovered the drawing. 

The next morning Ant returned to the house to find the art critic smoking a cigarette and a quaffing a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Again she raced to the dining room to make a drawing of that scene. She was in the process of signing it when the art critic entered the room.  He gasped in amazement at what he witnessed, and almost passed out as she appended her signature.  He dropped his cookie on the table and Antoinette reciprocated by eating a few of the crumbs. The art critic brought over a jar of sugar and put it on the table. Antoinette drew the bowl and, as a reward, carried some sugar away with her for the ant colony's approval. 

This was repeated many times for the whole summer. Sometimes she would draw action sketches; or horrendous monsters of her world which had never been seen before by humans. Other times it seemed to be a jungle scene. This continued until the art critic had collected 93 charcoal sketches of a whole range of subjects. 

One day Ant didn't appear, and neither did any of  the other ants. After a week the art critic knew that they were dead.  Another great master was lost to the Art World. (Ants only have a life expectancy of about 3 months). 

SEVERAL YEARS LATER... 

"You are reading this as you were hired to replace me as art critic for the magazine upon my death.   
You will be pleased to see  that I have left you one million dollars, and this letter.   
It is now in your best interest to think of me as having been sane when I made this will.   
You should have received this letter in a sealed envelope. I took the envelope to a public notary to had it signed and sealed, then I deposited it with my lawyer to be included with my will. If it is not sealed when you receive it, then raise the roof and have my lawyer arrested.   
The information in this letter is for your eyes only. I am going to tell you a story which, if I had told during my lifetime would have seen me permanently locked away. I might be considered  insane, or accused of using mind altering drugs. I didn't do drugs,  or to correct myself, I didn't inhale!!.   
Any way, you can be the judge of my sanity.   
My story will explain the earliest beginning of my wealth:  

It all began in the summer of 1959. I was employed as the art critic for your magazine.   
I was renting a house near a park at the centre of the city.   
One day in the park I found a charcoal sketch signed "Ant"; it was so exquisitely done that I went on the radio and raved about it. I asked everyone to give out my name, address and telephone number, in the vain hope that the artist would contact me. (You know it's not very often that an art critic gets to discover a really great new artist like "Ant").   

That evening I celebrated my new-found discovery with my girlfriend. The next morning when we awakened it seemed only natural to make love. When we came downstairs, there on the dining room table was a charcoal drawing of us. It was signed "Ant".  It's rendition was so lifelike that my girlfriend accused me of having some strange pervert watching our lovemaking and drawing a picture of it. She blew up, grabbed her purse, unchained the front door, and marched out of the house.  

I spent the rest of the day in confusion; I searched the house from top to bottom but found nothing. I tried to think of how the drawing  could have been done. My head ached but I got nowhere, so I gave up and got very drunk.   

When I arose the next day, I felt terrible. I went down to the kitchen to have a cup of coffee and a smoke. After that I felt much better, and I grabbed a cookie on my way out.   
In the dining room I stopped dead in my tracks, the cookie fell out of my open mouth. There on the table was an ant drawing a picture of me having a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. The ant then signed it "Ant"; then the ant  came over to my cookie and started eating it. Like a Zombie I went out and got a jar of sugar. I put it on the table. The ant abandoned the cookie, drew the sugar bowl,  then left carrying some of the sugar.   

I sat down and really started to think. My great discovery of a new genius in the Art World was an ant!! True, a really great one, I now had three samples to prove it. This was no artist that I could ever present at an art exhibit.   
In the morning, I had everything prepared; the drawing paper was set up in the centre of the table, beside it a bowl filled with the charcoal bits and in the corner was a jar filled with granular sugar. Ant showed up with a whole bunch of other ants.   

Ant started right away to draw while the rest of the ants attacked the sugar. By the time the sugar jar was empty, the sketch was completed and signed "Ant". The picture  was of a group of people playing with a frisbee. Ant followed the rest of the ants out of the house. I now had another great sketch, and the only commission I paid was a few lumps of sugar. This repeated itself all summer, until finally the ants disappeared, never to return. I was left with ninety-three sketches of various subjects.   

I mourned the fact that Ant was dead and I vowed that the Art World would know about "him".  I needed a tale to legitimize the sketches which I had obtained, but first I needed an alias.   
I had, in mistake, initially given my artist the first name of "Anthony".   
For his last name I decided to get really cute; I had a quirky sense of humour, so my artist became Anthony Formia. (Formia is Italian for Ant).   
I had to fabricate a description, so I decided to use mine: a man aged 27, dark hair, height 5'8" and weight 175 pounds. I also decided to give him a mustache to differentiate him from me. I filed a missing person's report with the police and pretended that my reason for trying to locate him was that I was his artistic agent. I told them that he had been coming every day to draw at my house; I also intimated that he had not been around for the last two weeks. 

The next phase in my ruse was to impersonate Anthony Formia. I put on a mustache and went to a lawyer. There "Anthony Formia" made out a will leaving all his sketches to his artistic agent, yours truly. Neat, eh?   

It took two years for the Police to find someone who matched my description of Anthony. They came up with a John Doe, who had been, as yet, unidentified by the Los Angeles city morgue. The Los Angeles' Police had finally decided to check other cities' missing person's reports to see if they could obtain a match. The poor wretch had been living in a dank rooming house; he had died of natural causes and had no identifying papers on him. They asked me to fly out to make a positive identification.   

We actually did look alike; it  was like identifying the body of a twin brother! I feigned profound distress over his demise, and stated that I was committed to bringing his art to the world's attention. I had him cremated there.   
I may have done something illegal in this, but the risks were small.   
I was committed to bringing this new genius to the attention of the Art World. I brought his ashes back and scattered them in the park next to my home.   

After the reading of the will, I now had apparent legal possession of the sketches. I set up a memorial art exhibition for my friend Anthony Formia who had mysteriously vanished and died in California. In the art gallery the 93 sketches were hung up and arranged to their best advantage and I fielded all kinds of questions about this unknown artist:  
 

So I did the simplest thing that I could; I bought gold at $35 an ounce and put it away in the bank vault for safekeeping. I did not want the money to corrupt me; if I needed it in my old age, it would always be there. I went back to my career as an art critic.   
In the mid 70's inflation went wild; gold exploded in price and by the time I had managed to sell it all I had $26 million, and my life was ruined!!   
   
I  needed a chartered accountant to do my income tax, a lawyer for incorporation, and an investment counselor to take the heat out of further decision making. Last time I looked the pot was at $45 million and still growing. That much money owned ME, not the reverse. I had to give up my job as an art critic.  

Life changed irrevocably: 
Artists wanted me to buy their work, not to write about it. 
All my relatives were after MY money instead of me after THEIRS. 
Keeping my secrets destroyed many relationships.   
Money increased the number of  "relatives" I had.   
Even my ex-wife wanted to re-marry me!!  

You might think it would be easier for you to tell the truth. Go ahead and try it.  But be wary, because it may enable my mean-spirited relatives to contest this will; you may have to kiss good-bye to this one million dollars. It's also likely that your professional reputation will go up in flames, and you will be asked to judge paintings done by monkeys!!  
 

Maybe non of this make sense, but  hey, that's the way it is.     
You have a good story that you can't tell anyone.   
Have fun.   
One million dollars is a cheap price to pay for finally being able to tell my story."