The man in the fez with the Britney mic

Clemmy whispered something to him just after she'd gone under, while she was sat there, snorelessly inert. The guy shrugged, flung wide his costumed arms and told her that her breasts were a disease, that there were spider eggs inside them about to hatch in 5, 4, 3...

Last man in the world to feel those tits, and likely to stay so, Clemmy had coaxed his best friend along, having first made arrangements with Mesmo for a 'birthday surprise.' The man in the fez with the Britney mic mused aloud, pacing the boards, on who should leave the hug of the audience for the stage, before daggering a finger at Row K, Seat 45.

Waiting in the wings, Clemmy watched her scale the stage, looking fruitlessly in the direction of the toilet for back-up.

She was a textbook subject. Out like a light. Nothing scripted. He just wanted to see what would happen, so said the first thing that came into his head when the fez leaned over conspiratorially.

At first she blinked and smacked her lips together. Then Clemmy asked her what those things on her chest were.

A moment of confusion before she screamed. Started slapping at them like they were covered in bugs, begging to be rid of them, get them OFF! GETTHEMOFFME! Sweating, crying, eyes tied to the perfect swell of her tits.

People had laughed at the chickenwalk man, people had laughed at the man who believed he spoke Venusian. Nobody laughed at the woman on stage, screaming too loudly to hear the hypnotist's magic 'stop' words. Nobody laughed as her mascara leached down in smutty strands. Least of all Clemmy. They just watched.

Only when she ripped open her shirt, standing there pointing and yelling "THERE! HELP ME! THEY'RE ALL OVER!", did the audience realise it wasn't right. The poster hadn't stated an adult show. A few turned their kids' faces towards the fire exit.

Helpless, she ran into the wings, returning with a huge blade. Clemmy shot forward. The hypnotist, suddenly giving up his attempts at spellcasting, cried "It's ok - it's a fake!" Fred Rondaine, the illusionist, had wrapped up his nationwide tour here the previous night.

"Wait. Let me speak to her," said the hypnotist, as Clemmy began to rush forward again. "I can coax her out of, calm her down. It could be damaging to restrain her at this point. She's not herself at all."

She had stopped screaming and was shaking, staring at the phantom spiders once again. The hypnotist began: "When you wake up, you will remember nothing..." For a second, their gazes clicked together.

Suddenly Clemmy's foot caught on a wire badly taped to the stage. There was a clang as the knife fell from her hand.

"That doesn't sound fake!" he cried, just in time to see both breasts fall wetly to the floor, dead jellyfish or spilled summer puddings.

Then everything was red and loud and sopping and her in the middle of it all, stepping back from the mess – this grim hen night cake – relieved, still nervous like a child stepping back from the tiger’s bars, watching her feet, scratching.

A pair of fingers snapped softly.