Someone wails something in a high, purposeful, ululating voice. Hackworth 
can't understand what this person is saying. Then there is a single massive 
drumbeat. More wailing. Another drumbeat. Again. The third drumbeat establishes 
a ponderous rhythm. This goes on for a while, the beat slowly speeding up. 
After a certain point the wailer no longer stops between beats, he begins to 
weave his rap through the bars in a sort of counterpoint. The ring of men 
standing around the girl begin to dance in a very simple shuffling motion, one 
way and then the other way around the girl. Hackworth notes that all of them 
have erections, sheathed in brightly colored mediatronic condoms—rubbers 
that actually make their own light so that the bobbing boners look like so many 
cyalume wands dancing through the air.