A large black and yellow insect buzzing around Brigid’s head causes her eyes to open in fear. It is followed by another. And another, circling around her like speedy little planets. One lands on her nipple. Of course she has no hand free to brush it away. She flinches, then, not wanting to provoke it, determines not to move. It is soon joined by another. Then another, landing on her other nipple and exploring it.
They are wasps, and with alarm everyone except Brigid looks up to see a big nest up in a corner of the ceiling. Why were exterminators not called in? This room has been neglected for quite some time. Indoors, given enough time, wasps can construct nests out of season. The first instinct of the terrified watchers is to run but that would aggravate the wasps. They don’t want Brigid to get stung!
In fact the wasps don’t care about them. Their only interest is Brigid, more particularly the sticky sweetness from Mr. Stamberg’s sodas. Soon dozens are upon her; the message has gone out to the nest and now there seems to be a battalion of them on their journey to the pinioned girl. They crawl around on the sweet smelling nipples, and then they discover her crotch.
How can she not lose her mind? Yet Brigid endures. Little mandibles munch on her breasts, on her pubic hair, her lower lips, and crawl around the sensitive skin of her anus, biting and sticking in their sharp little legs, their feelers poking around for sucrose. Worst of all, some enter her womanly cave, crawling in and out. Who knows how far they are going in? Are they crawling over her cervix?
The only sound is of pervasive buzzing like those horns at a World Cup match. It echoes off the walls as Brigid is clothed with a new uniform -- of crawling insects. Perhaps an art connoisseur could describe the volatile, undulating mixture of black and yellow. Her new “circlets” are constantly in motion within themselves. Her new “thong” consists of big clumps of wasps on her vulva and anus, crawling not only over her but over each other. She is not stung, but that is hardly a consolation. In her agony her eyes plead to Fr. Haglin, Debra, Ms. Johannes, Rod, Ms. McPherson, Jim, Ms. Gadolino, begging them for help they are unable to give. She closes her eyes upward and says a fevered, desperate prayer to the Virgin Mary.
The strain of not being able to move is taking its toll. Finally she emits a strangled scream. “Nnnnnhhh!!” Her body shivers, her fingers and toes squirming against the pipes they are desperately clutching, her eyes wide with panic.
Her “living uniform” undulates and pulses, as the layers of wasps exchange layers. Her thong strings and stringy flip flops must have picked up some of the soda too, because soon marching files of wasps are tracing their former paths. The helpless watchers can’t see her butt; however, it is easy to imagine lines of the insects following the echoes of the two ends of the V-back as they crawl to meet inside her butt crack. The urge to shake off the lines of wasps from her feet, where the strings of her flip flops were, and from her soles, must be intense. But she dare not move to dislodge them, and risk being stung. Or losing her grip on the pipes and falling.
Some of the people watching cannot help but imagine Brigid performing at halftime in this uniform made of hundreds of tiny wiggling arthropods. Can she still throw straight, and catch the baton, while so distracted, as her limbs twitch, as her eyes widen whenever she is bitten in a place deep inside her?
Now Brigid’s eyes open in amazement and puzzlement as another, unwanted sensation makes itself felt. The whiff of sticky sugary soda now is mixed with . . . could it really be? The human female responds to certain stimulations no matter how unwillingly. Most of the adults recognize that primal womanly scent. For some of the teenaged Tunemasters it is a mystery, but an oddly attractive one. Brigid’s body, unconsciously, begins to undulate, very subtly.
Unfortunately this results in Brigid’s legs being about to give way. Suddenly it begins to rain. Or rather, the overhead sprinkler has gone off. It is surprising that it still works. But one of the wasps, flying near the ceiling, has triggered it.
All the sprinklers are supposed to activate at once. But in another sign of engineering neglect, only one does, the one above Brigid. No one else gets wet. The freezing water, originating in a snow-covered tank on the roof, is like a shower, except due to the distance from the ceiling it pelts her with jolts of icy force. Despite the shock of cold the water must be a relief because it drives away the wasps, first from her breasts, and then slowly from below. Amazingly, she is still not stung. The last holdouts are inside her, or hanging on to her sphincter. Their determined little claws yank on her most sensitive skin. But one by one they give up and return to the nest. Finally one flies out from her opened vagina right toward the crowd, causing those in the first row of onlookers to flinch, before it veers upwards to its home.
As the infernal buzzing ceases and the only sound is water from the dripping nude, the crowd silently says prayers of thanks. Just watching the scene was a horrible experience. Frank Helfers, the assistant custodian, recovers his wits enough to leave the room and call 911.
However their relief at Brigid’s (slightly) improved condition is short lived. Her wet hair drooping around her shoulders, she looks down and is finally able to breathe deeply. Her concave tummy heaves in and out. But the water has made the pipes slippery and despite the grabbing of her fingers and her dexterous toes she cannot prevent sliding down, inch by inch.
Her eyes dart down with horror as she sees where she is destined. It is a cross-pipe with a valve directly below her. The valve handle, six inches of stainless steel, shiny with water, sticks upward. Up, up her feet go so as to allow her stretching hands to grab the pipes more securely. They are now even with her shoulders as her oversplit increases to 210 degrees. The crowd is as horrified as she is as her widely spread butt slides down and down, closer and closer . . .