The Meadow 43 her with a rolled-up newspaper, when suddenly Grete bit the woman’s arm, sucking her fill. The man hovered, newspaper in hand as Max slowly lowered the man’s arm. “No violence here, please. She’ll be gone in seven days. Let her be,” Max reasoned. “She bit me! That little bitch bit me!” the woman wailed and, grabbing the rolled-up newspaper, came at Grete with all of her temper. Grete ducked and darted; she swarmed without a swarm. “Let Grete finish talking,” Max urged. “She’s not talking! She’s buzzing! We can’t even understand her anymore!” “Remember,” Max calmly reminded the group, his hands motioning to tamp down the emotional boil, “we are here to learn to accept one another. This is a safe place.” “I can’t take it no more.” The young guy screamed and swatted the air as Grete buzzed above his head. A group conscience took hold. It was Waco. “Get her!” Max lunged, throwing himself in front of the woman with the rolled-up newspaper. “Violence is not the answer!” Max’s lamentations rang through the air, falling on unsympathetic ears. “Outta my way, skeeter-lover!” The large woman shoved him to the ground, her Route 44 Cherry Limeade spilling everywhere, people sliding, one man licking the floor instinctively as his legs shrunk and were replaced by six fuzzy protrusions. In the mayhem, the woman with the rolled-up newspaper got what she wanted. Grete’s body lay in pieces on the ground. Max shook his head in sadness as he gently scraped Grete from the floor. As the group began to file out, the old black man called Max to the table. Grete had signed up to bring snacks to the next meeting. “Look at this.” The man pointed to the sheet. Beside her name on the signup sheet, O-positive.
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