STUNG

Right side of his face expanded like rising pizza dough. Dean Smith was stung by a Japanese Hornet on a Saturday while barbecuing in his back yard. Janet brought a bag of frozen beans and bottle of Benadryl. Dean thanked her and then pointed to the nest, which hung from a Sycamore branch 27 feet above the patio.

Damn, she said. It’s bigger than I thought. Thing’s the size of a laundry basket. Think we should? Should what? Destroy it, babe. I mean, look, your face. He took his eyes off the nest and poured Benadryl into a shot sized cup, and chugged it happy hour style—but ignored her question. Is the ice helping? She asked and reached to inspect him. But he leaned away defensively. Her shoulders hung. She turned and collected the garlic and onion powder from the grill, and headed inside. But not before one last suggestion.

Perhaps your shotgun can do the trick, she said. With one foot in the house and the other on the patio, she continued. And besides, you’re pretty good at shooting things down, no? He wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist and tossed the plastic cup at her face. Have you always been this stupid? he said. Shoot the nest and then what, shoot the seven thousand chasing my ass down the block, too? She reversed her direction, both feet now back on the patio, and stepped toward him.

Alright, Dean. I have a better idea. What if you still shoot the nest, still wait for the seven thousand, but now, instead of killing thousands, gun down just those that are yours and I’ll gun down just those that aren’t. Or, should the Queen Bee sign papers, too? His shoulders hung. Asshole, she continued. Hope the Benadryl fails and your throat closes quickly. She rolled her eyes, scooped up the plastic cup, placed it in his hands, and entered the house. Dean wrestled with his thoughts realizing he’d now been stung twice, and a third possibly very soon.