The consoomer is the overgrown grub of a shit-eating insect.
It doesn't really know it's capable of eating shit, nor it thinks that shit is high value food. It just gobbles. That's what it does.
The hand of the Author (saint and martyr of this story) feeds this pitiful animal some "content", distilled from pure human soul, out of pity, to make its revolting grub life more bearable. The Author (saint and martyr of this story) wants to grow food to turn the carcass-eating, shit-eating larvae into humans, because He's a good man and He wants to elevate lesser beings. He likes the idea of giving something to the world, and helping these wretched subhuman beasts become something not so disgusting and rotten. The overgrown, grub-like parasite gobbles the soul-distilled content and wants more, needs more. The revolting maggot, all-gobbling maggot will not pay of course, because worms don't know what money is. Maggots are after all infants, and infants do not have a place in life yet, they just happen, they sit there and gobble until they become adult. But the grub consoomer larva worm is perennially a child. The Author (saint and martyr of this story) doesn't know that yet, or thinks that may be the case, but in His goodness He is also naïve, and dismisses this possibility. It will take a while for Him to figure out. The larva thrashes desperately so that the Author (saint and martyr of this story) notices it and feeds it. And so He does, over and over. Nothing changes except His soul is depleted, and as this happens He is sacrificing some of his livelihood, because working also takes effort and He needs to do that to survive, and the grub larva demonic shit-eater doesn't pay after all.
The Author (saint and martyr of this story) realizes that His soul-distilled "content" doesn't change the disgusting, shit-eating larva into a man, and the fucking maggot-like parasite sometimes eats feces, those of other, nobler animals, sometimes its own feces. It's horrible. Sometimes it eats the feces before the soul extract, showing that it cannot tell one from the other. The Author (saint and martyr of this story) realizes that He's funneling precious soul extract into an unchanging larval abomination that will never change into anything better. It cannot even get any fatter. Its pathetic life does not improve upon eating the soul-distilled "content". So the Author (saint and martyr of this story) decides to just give it shit. There's no difference anyway. He harvests the shits He takes, the unusable shit He can't drop in the fields, something which takes far less work to produce and is of no value, and feeds this refuse to the larva so it doesn't die. The monster gobbles it. The Author (saint and martyr of this story) then finds someone who is interested in the larva. He doesn't care what the buyer will do with the shit-eating monster. He gives it away, because He's tired of wasting his time on this fucking fat thankless faggot.