The Sting Job

Flash fiction [satirical noir / humorous pov]

Abbey Wade told you her side of the story in her brilliant “I Got Stung in the Vagina by a Yellow Jacket”, which you should absolutely read first:

I Got Stung in the Vagina by a Yellow Jacket

It was a heinous incident. A true crime in human-insect relations.

But, as you know, every crime has a perp. And every perp has a story.

This is the wasp’s.

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They say the color was electric shrimp. Maybe so. To me, it was a trap wrapped in temptation.

I’d seen a lot in my day. Picnics gone sideways. Soda cans turned to blood baths. A dozen nests burned down by bored kids with lighters, spray, and enough mommy issues to retire a therapist.

But those pants? They were tight, dangerous, and electric shrimp pink. She’d paired them with a bright green top, like an upside down azalea.

I should’ve known better.

But who can say no to azaleas? They were bright as the ripest persimmon you’ve ever seen. They were the kind of bright that makes your mandibles ache. The kind that thousands of generations of yellow jackets have longed for.

I was loitering near the driver-side mirror like a two-bit grifter outside a 7-Eleven, brain buzzing on pavement heat and spilled Gatorade. She stepped out of the gym across the lot with the kind of swagger that said she’d conquered whatever fight happened in there.

Cardio, maybe. Deadlifts. Handstand push-ups. Probably all three. Didn’t matter. She was glistening with sweat and confidence, and heading right for me. Made my antennae twitch.

I was supposed to be out of the game. Settling down in a compost pile or rotten log somewhere. I wasn’t looking for trouble. The dame found me.

Then she cracked the door. Heat poured out. Salt. Protein. Something citrus-tinged. Passionfruit protein powder, or pre-workout, maybe. I caught a whiff, and that was it. That and the moment. That brief moment when her thumb flicked into the waistband just enough to break the seal.

Opportunity doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it shouts “YOLO”. And it certainly never knocks twice.

I dove. Slipped in just as she dropped into the seat, the waistband snapping back behind me.

It was dark, hot, and sweaty. The faint rhythm of a Spotify playlist pulsed through the spandex. Took me right back to my larva days.

My world was salt and heat. It was cozy. Hygge, even. But I knew if I rushed I’d be found out. Couldn’t have that. That’d be catastrophic. So, I inched. Bit by bit. Followed my feelers.

There was a curve in the fabric. Snuggled tight and warm. I found a pocket of stillness there. A perfect oasis.

I settled in, and let the pulse of the music wash over me. Drank in the warmth and the pressure, like I was wrapped in a weighted blanket behind blackout curtains.

And then?

Pinch.

Sharp and sudden. Right on the thorax. My peaceful oasis betrayed by whatever contortion she’d done. I didn’t think. Couldn’t. Just stung.

WHAP!

It just about knocked the wind out of me. I’d been made. And I couldn’t go down without a fight.

I bit. Worked my angle. Stung. And stung again.

Everything shifted. My world exploded.

Her body twisted. The fabric pulled. I barely had time to brace. She slapped again, harder, frantic. My vision went hexagonal. I gripped the seam like it was the edge of a cliff and I was one slip away from oblivion.

I stung again. I’m not proud of it. But instinct is one hell of a drug.

She let out a furious war-cry, and the electric shrimp all peeled away.

At some point she dropped to her knees. I was just along for the ride. The shrimp were halfway down. I was somewhere between flesh and fabric. She crawled. I clung.

And then she gave up.

That’s when a man burst in. His eyes scanned the scene. She was shouting something about her vagina. He looked around like he’d stumbled on the final girl in a horror movie, and like he was concerned this might become a lawsuit.

He pulled the waistband down just enough to reveal my successful sting operation. I didn’t run. Or buzz. I just walked out on my own six legs. But I’d never sting clean again.

I made it as far as the open garage door before the adrenaline wore off and the pain set in. I curled up in a warm patch of sun. Watched specks of dust float by. Thought about the ones who didn’t always make it out of the sleeves. My wings twitched, and I curled my legs up under me while I rode it out.

They’ll say I didn’t think. Didn’t feel. That I’m just rage in a pinstripe suit.

I don’t know. Maybe I am. But I had time to think. Time to feel. Time to wonder if it had all been worth it.

Why her? Why there? Why me? Why any of us?

You know what? I’ll tell you why. We all get one.

One mistake. One miracle. One moment when the heat gets to your head and the electric shrimp pop open just enough for you to dive in.

It was the call of the sweat that told me it was my one. It was the snap of the shrimp that told me to leave my mark.

They call her The VaJacket now.

You tell me what that’s worth.

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More fiction, poetry, and whatnot soon. Fewer wasps, though. Probably.