By Jingle

Ralph was down at the feed lot when the bees started up inside of his head. "Sunnuva," he hissed and quickly sat down (and shook his head as Margaret approached). "Leave him," he said (but it wasn't him). "Leave him, by jingle, or you're to blame for this next part and it ain't gonna be pretty." Margaret, who'd brought over a cup of water, dropped the cup and felt nothing as the cold liquid flew everywhere. "It been comin' for a while, Margaret Jean, and I don't mean your lotto winnings; it's bad, girl, and it ain't healing itself. By jingle, you get outta there and take both dogs." It was the "by jingle" that made her cry; she hadn't heard that since her Uncle Vernon died. "You have limited time," Ralph/Vernon whispered, and Margaret nodded. "Sell the jewelry and get a place in a city far away. Go now. Today. No more dilly dallying. And you take those dogs, mind. He'll kill the dogs." Ralph threw up; he always threw up at the end of brain bees (like the world's worst exclamation point). It was beyond embarrassing. Margaret got him cleaned up, staying silent, and then Ralph touched her lightly on the shoulder. "I got nuthin' to do today and a big truck," he said softly. She gave a quick hug and wiped a tear away. "Give me a minute to tell my boss I gotta head out," Margaret replied (not making eye contact). "By jingle," the bees said (in a rapidly fading buzz). "By jingle."