Drones screamed as they were ripped apart or bitten to death, and the sisters’ feet slid on the bloodied, pulsing comb. Filled with consecrated anger at every insult and humiliation, every wasted forage and sullied passageway, they avenged themselves on the wastrel favorites, the sacred sons who did nothing for their keep but brag and eat and show their sex to those who must only labor for them and never be loved.
