imagine you parked on the side of the road to sleep in the back of your RV, and a giant wasp just shoves its ovipositor straight through the metal roof like its nothing. it can't even see you, but it doesn't have to, the vibrations alone, not to mention your scent, your body heat, hell even the carbon dioxide from your breath. it's getting those eggs into your body one way or the other.
in the dimness all you can see is a vague line from the ceiling to just above where it stabbed right into the mattress between your knees. the mangled fragments of a metal spring are pulled out with it when it raises its ovipositor a few feet to try again. and again. and again. each time getting a little closer, the angle a little shallower, until its rubbing right up against your damp crotch. what's one more barrier? the thin fabric splits open easily with a final thrust, as it claims its host. the eggs are forced in inexorably as heavy globs that seem to be endless, the mass of them wrenching you open and making themselves at home. by tomorrow morning you'll have become convinced that it was a strange dream, a sign of too long isolated out in the wilderness, and before the eggs prove themselves to be real, you will have driven another thousand miles, inadvertently bringing your passengers to new breeding grounds when they're ready to emerge.
