Frank, ants and Mrs Stein.

Frank glanced to the side and spit out. His sputum landed on a tree root. He had found what he was looking for : a ginger ant mound, not larger than a Stetson. He turned around and walked to his truck.

Frank lowered the tailgate, picked up a coil of thick rope with a steel butcher's hook fastened at one end, a length of one inch extra heavy PVC pipe and a sobbing, writhing mass of teenage girl, 'bout a hundred pounds' worth of senior psychology student.

Frank watched her stand uneasily for a minute, naked but for the harness, eyes darting wildly, mascara runs every which way, trying desperately to signal something or the other past the ballgag and the leather moonglove. The sunshine of the early Monday morning filtering through the trees gave the scene an idyllic quality.

He dragged her by the hair to the spot of his discovery, propped her against the tree, hoisted the rope over a branch, hooked it to the steel ring behind her neck and raised her up about two feet in the air.

As she was dangling in the air squirming her legs he removed her stretcher plug. The pop was audible, the hole left behind generous. It's always the skinny ones that have the bigger buttholes, Frank thought. He shoved the plastic pipe deep inside her, then guided the other end gingerly as he slowly released the rope. The pipe went about six or eight inches into the mound when he stopped, fastened the rope's end against the tree, turned around and started off.

She started emitting a deep, chilling sort of growl, about how you'd expect a turtle to whine if turtles could somehow whine. Frank turned, looked at her for a moment, and then reasurred her in a melodious drawl : "Dun' worry yourself any, the pipe's smooth, they can't climb it." Then after a moment he added "Jus' be careful not to shit. Once it dries they can climb on that."

Frank tipped his hat and took off.