Dr. Forrest Broussard, long an eccentric
entomologist, sat in his
lab with a
pen and a
pad and a
needle and
thread, and various other implements and materials. You see, he had one day decided that he would become the ultimate authority on the
mosquito, doing so in the most immersive imaginable way: he would
become one. Or, at any rate, as close to one as any one man could come. And thusly he embarked upon a project which would forever alter his life -- and that of a notorious Louisiana Bayou poacher named Carl Snivers.
Broussard's mosquito
costume was not just any costume, but the ultimate one, a masterpiece of dipteran
mimicry. One which, in his
imagination, designed him to blend into the swarms of mosquitoes that thrived in the murky, moss-draped swamps of
Louisiana -- that's where he was headed -- where the
air was thick with a cake-like
humidity, where the frogs and insects chirped a
chorus of constant
cacophony. The costume itself was, naturally, a marvel, giving Broussard the appearance and movements of a gigantic mosquito, with buzzing wings that vibrated with a studiously authentic sound. Deeper and deeper, he ventured into the swamp, to live among the mosquitoes, to study their behaviors from within their
world.
His observations were methodical at first, documenting the mosquitoes' feeding patterns, the way they navigated through the dense vegetation, their mating flights. But in his isolation, the relentless drone of the swamp, began to massage his perceptions. He started to see complex rituals where before he had noted only primal insect instincts. The dance of mosquitoes became, to his mind, a ballet of love and war, a pondering of the philosophy of the swamp. And amongst them, he noticed one mosquito, a female he named Annabella. Her movements, he believed, were distinct, almost as if she was communicating with him, flirting, teasing, sharing secrets of the swamp which could be known to only the two of them.
As days turned into nights turned into days, Broussard found himself utterly enchanted by Annabella, and her buzzing whispers of affection, the secrets she told--
But then came the dusk when Carl Snivers came to this part of the swamp, looking to poach, his craggly face with its crooked teeth peering after whatever he might kill for a few dollars. The sun painted the sky in hues of
blood and
gold. Annabella flew towards Snivers, unawares. She bit. And with the instinctual swat of a man long-plagued by incessant bites, he struck Annabella. The cruel smack echoed through the swamp. Poor, sweet Anabella's life, ended in a loveless instant.
Grief and rage welled up in Broussard as he sprung from the concealment of the swamp, a scream tearing from his throat, a sound more akin to the buzzing of a thousand enraged mosquitos than any human anguish heretofore known. From Snivers'
perspective, of course, a colossal mosquito was furiously charging at him, giving rise to instantaneous sheer terror. He ran, his boots squelching in the mud, branches snapping back as he pushed through the underbrush. Broussard, fueled by the anger of love torn from him, pursued. His costume's wings flapping erratically, aiding the nightmarish visage. "Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzzzz!!" he screamed as he closed the distance between them. And then Snivers caught a foot on a branch. He fell. He grasped at a knife on his belt as he turned, and Broussard was upon him, the sharpened ends of his mosquito costume legs tearing at the assailant of his love. He attacked with seemingly superhuman strength, face contorted with mosquito hate, "BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ BUZZZZZZZZ!!" Blood splashed. Snivers' managed to desperately thrust his knife upwards one time, one fateful time. But it was too late. In the next second, Snivers was convulsing, and Broussard was looking down at the
blade plunged full into his own
heart. "Buzz.... buzz...." Broussard wheezed, before collapsing onto Snivers' dying body, managing to squeeze out one more more word with his last
breath.... "A-- Annabella...."
And after that there was nothing but the sounds of the frogs and the bugs, and the buzzing, the eternal buzz-buzz-buzzing, of the mosquitoes.