BB has a vision

All she ever dreamed of was being an angel flying above the sea

BB’s dream

When BB was a little girl she dreamed of going to Cannes to the beach to play and to splash in the sea. In her little village nestled in the hills, the Côte d’Azur seemed like a paradise on earth. She dreamed of flying like an angel above the waves, and blessing the people on the boats below with her smile.

Luckily for her, she was graced with a particular physique and a particular look that meant that certain men looked upon her with a certain interest. A nice up-and-coming director called Roger said he could make her into a “sex kitten”, which seemed a little disgusting to BB - who thinks that a little kitten has sex? - but it meant she could go to St Tropez and begin to fly above the waves, so she agreed.

Then their film went to Cannes. It was a success. BB was a sex kitten now, and would be pawed and played with by those who had the power, and she could purr just how they liked.

But there was a particular thing they did. It’s not something she liked to talk about. Or even think about. It happened on certain nights, at a time they called The Worming.

The blood moon rose above the waves, its baleful eye upon them. They evoked Spica the Tentacle Mother, and Lalo the Ambivalent, whose feast day fell on the Festival’s opening night. The little creatures fell to mewling then, as they were consumed by the partygoers in their smart tuxedoes and YSL gowns. It was a raw feasting of the weak by the powerful, just as Spica and Lalo had bid them.

BB felt sure she would never eat flesh again. Her vision came then, unbidden but true.

It was The Worming.

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THE WORMING

Dawn has come and with it the curse so deeply imagined and hoped-for by those who conjured it. What follows then is a performance of unrest and unending itching want.

The delicate harpsichord fugues of Lalo Schifrin's jazzy baroque chamberpiece "The Marquis de Sade" tinkle sweetly over the scene as worms, sized all the way from the great thick arms of stevedores to the vermicelli of a hearty pasta stew, swarm and slither along the boulevards, through the sidestreets and cafés, over the croissants and through the toes of the lingerers on the promenade recliners, those who had dozed off but now find themselves surprised by the pulsing mass, hair clogged with worms as leechlike burrowers delve into their bellybuttons and ears.

The Worming is underway. It is a Gala Day of Vermitude.

Dig those jazzy harpischord progressions as a worm with the girth of an unimagined penis seems to throb and wobble, birthing a splash of tiny worms on the face of a gendarme. The copper writhes fetchingly but his shimmies avail him nought, that strapping officer of enforcement and discipline, and he falls to the pavement beside a boulangerie with his eyes dissolved in a froth of pink ooze.

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When the frenzy is accomplished, the fog clears, and nobody is the worse for wear. Everything that passed during The Worming is forgotten, except for a nagging fragment of unglimpsable memory like a nail in the back of the skull.

Those who were consumed before are consumed still, but in a way that can’t so easily be seen.

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