Your collective mass contains multitudes: not simply a
single pulsing intellect but a mass thereof, a driving chaotic force that
accelerates as a single entity. It would
be a remarkable thing to behold if it wasn't for the fact that your particular
pulsating intellect-mass is entirely dedicated to two things: laying eggs and
biting people on and around their genitals.
You're a mass of mites, possessed, through an irregularity
of evolution, of a single hive mind. You
live in the pubic hair of one young woman, named Shawna. Shawna, while a kind enough soul, doesn't
care much for personal grooming, so your existence will, for the most part, be
danger free: no risk of being uprooted or killed en-masse by some sort of
hygenic experiment.
Well, no risk until today.
Some backstory: Shawna met a young man named Forbit a few
weeks ago. Shawna and Forbit struck up a
relationship and fell madly in love with one another but Shawna, who was used
to having a truly remarkable mass of pubic hair, wasn't getting her downstairs
taken care of by the hair-averse Forbit.
Forbit, in turn, asked her to shave.
Shawna might've done something harsh in response, like asked
Forbit to change his name to something less incredibly fucking stupid, but she
didn't. Instead she quietly, sadly,
shaved her pubic hair.
That was this morning.
You've clung to the hairs, which settled on Shawna's bathroom floor,
since. As time drifts by, you'll realize
that there's no way you'll be able to survive long enough to find a new host,
particularly a host with as abundant a pubic mass as Shawna. So you'll do what mites always do.
You'll emit a nearly imperceptible keening song that tears
at the heart of anyone who listens to it.
It will be imperceptible to human ears, and no one will be
home, but some silverfish in the walls will catch parts of your ditty and be
very, very touched. Of course, it won't
keep you from dying.
Enjoy non-existence!
Congratulations Thousands of Mites!
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