My middle school's campus was arranged in a slightly peculiar way: The baseball field, which was at the lowest point, was separated from the main schoolyard by a large parking lot. This climbed up a small hill to an expansive area of pavement, which - if you were to walk to the far left - would immediately plunge downward again as you approached the gym. At the bottom of that slope, there was a narrow concrete path, with the only method of effectively ascending (or descending) being a set of about three dozen weatherworn stairs.

This geography lesson is important, I promise.

At the point where those stairs met the path, there was a trashcan. That trashcan, which had spent the majority of my eighth grade year as little more than a receptacle for garbage, was one day overrun by a swarm of bees... and although that area was one of the least-well-traveled spots on campus, the dull, ominous buzz of a thousand tiny wings could be easily heard by anyone with the notion to listen for it.

Naturally, it was only a matter of time before folks started daring one another to approach the insect-possessed trashcan, and not much longer before those dares escalated into offers of money.

"Okay," a young man named Nick had been saying, "I'll give someone a dollar if they run up and kick the garbage can."

I snorted at that. "A dollar? That's not worth the time, not to mention the risk."

"He's right!" a boy named Andrew chimed in. "I wouldn't do it for less than five."

Nick narrowed his eyes at the both of us. "Okay," he replied, "five dollars, then."

"Make it ten," I said, "and I'll do it."

"Ten?" Andrew repeated. "Good god, man, are you mad?" (Andrew occasionally liked to act like he was a character from a James Bond novel, despite being both thirteen years old and American.)

"Hey, whose side are you on?!" I protested. Then, turning back to Nick, I firmly restated my offer. "Ten dollars. I'll run up, kick the trashcan, and run away."

For a few seconds, Nick considered this. "For ten dollars," he said, "you have to kick the trashcan, and then make it back up the hill."

"Done."

A small crowd had gathered by that point, and although I regretted the agreement the moment after I'd made it, I knew that I couldn't back down. It had become about a question of pride as much as it had a promise of payment... and so, with cautious, regretful steps, I descended towards the foreboding trashcan and its infernal hum.

I pulled my leg back, swallowed nervously, and then let my foot fly.

For the briefest of instants, the world was silent. Then, like a thunderclap on a still night, the sound of a metallic crash hit my ears. For me, that was the starter pistol's report, and I sprinted as fast as I could up the stairs. I could hear the angry sibilation of a black-and-yellow army behind me, though the thumping of my heartbeat in my ears soon drowned it out.

Seconds later, I reached the crowd at the top of the hill... and I was greeted by a dozen expressions of disappointment.

"Man, that was boring!" someone said. "They didn't even fly after you."

I turned to look, and sure enough, the trashcan looked all but undisturbed. "Well," I gasped, "nobody said that I had to get chased." I turned to Nick and held out my hand. "Pay up."

"No way!" Nick exclaimed. "That was boring! It wasn't worth ten dollars at all!"

"I agree," murmured Andrew. (I made a mental note to kick him at a later time.)

"You'd better give me something," I snarled, "or else I'm going to bring you with me next time."

With a roll of his eyes, Nick reached into his pocket and produced... a single dollar. As I'd suspected, the amount didn't feel like it had been worth the time or the risk... but I accepted it nonetheless.

TL;DR: I faced almost certain death by bees for a dollar.