I’m in the warehouse with Giddemore. “Fuck!” he shouts, waving his hands at a bug.
“This wasp is nasty! It stung me one time, and my hand disappeared for a week. We gotta kill it!”
I see the wasp for myself. It has a goopy green/yellow translucent exoskeleton, and the morphology of a child’s plastic toy left by a fire, with a stinger unbothered by flame. It floats lazily in the air.
There’s another plot. Someone holding a shotgun. Something about an autistic girl who loves in the warehouse. There’s some running around, not nightmarish, more like the musical scene from a Scooby Doo episode. I end up on my knees, panting.
The wasp flies on to my forehead. I feel a prick, and headbutt the wasp into the floor crushing it.
“Do you remember how long it took your hand to disappear?” I ask Gidde.
“No, why?”
“Because it stung me on my head. I was wondering how long I had to wait.” I say, joking through the fear.
