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A Wasp’s Sting

P. Keith Boran

I

    A man in a cheap suit arrived, placing a new briefcase on the table before him. “It’s really good to meet you,” he whispered, “the name’s Johnson.” Duncan’s confusion must have been evident, for Johnson smiled before he added, “I’m your lawyer.” The trial began. Duncan had allegedly entered a convenient store, murdered a clerk, and fled with a crisp five dollar note. His actions characterized as “callous, cold, and calculated,” by the prosecution, they labeled him a danger, someone who would “kill for the thrill.”
    Duncan was never given the opportunity to speak openly, nor did Johnson attempt to represent his interests. He just sat there, occasionally shrugging when Duncan glanced at him, a blatant hint that Duncan wanted him to do something, to do anything. But he never did. And after a ten minute trial, Duncan was convicted of murder in the first degree. And Johnson whispered “tough break” as he packed to leave.

II

    Duncan awoke amongst shouting, a sharp pain lingering in his neck. A voice was raised in anger, another in fear, but both were overbearing. His head ached beyond measure, for something was wrong. A male stood atop a female; her clothes were ripped, her body beaten, blood splatter about her person. Her face was bruised and swollen, her features a mangled pulp. “You lying whore,” the man yelled. He struck her again, hiding his face behind some silly mask, one worn to trick and treat.
    Her hands were outstretched towards him. She pleaded with him, begged him to stop the pain, the violence, the rage. But it was all in vain. He hit her until she screamed no more, her voice reduced to a faint moan. Her broken body beyond repair, her life began to flee. The man sat breathing hard, gleaning physical pleasure from the thrill of it all. Then, he slowly walked over to Duncan, pausing to grab a snack from a shelf. He watched Duncan as he ate, his pulse still pacing audibly. And when he had finished the snack, he knelt beside Duncan, placing a bloody rock in his hand. “Trust me,” he whispered softly, “she had it coming.” He laughed as he unlocked the door and exited the store, proud of his work, proud for it to be done.

III

    Duncan perused the freezers, looking for a beverage sweet and cool. The clerk bellowed out a “howdy,” expecting some polite reply, a “hi,” or something along those lines. But a “hey” slipped from Duncan’s lip instead. And he was thinking her cute when the door chimed, when some man lingered in. But the clerk didn’t bother to “howdy” this one. In fact, she seemed most unhappy he was even there at all.
    “You’ve been a bad girl, baby,” he said, walking back to the freezers. “Not returning my calls.” And with beer in hand, he looked Duncan over. “Women,” he said, “aren’t they grand?” He took a sip. “This one,” he said, “she’ll spread her legs anytime, anywhere, with anyone.” “It’s not what you think,” she said softly, her tone desperate, her face wet; “it was nothing, really.”
    Duncan said nothing. He walked to up the counter, hoping to pay for a simple soda and leave. But as she counted back his change, Duncan knew her nerves were shot, her cadence too rushed, too weary. And the stirrings behind – the nervous pacing, the can crushed, the swearing so hushed – beckoned him to leave and move along. But the door had been locked. And when Duncan felt the prick at the back of his neck, his body went cold, then numb, then limp. And like a wasp’s sting, there was a quick flash of pain, and then nothing.

IV

    The road from Jackson to Panama was winding, tiring, and long. But with song in throat, and the cool breeze, the cool air, Duncan was making his way there. But a persistent sun forced its hand, leaving him to want a drink, perhaps something sweet, something cool. So, after a mile or two, he found himself a town rural and small, one with a convenient store.
    Duncan pulled in and parked. Across the lot, near the store’s dingy dumpster, sat a man in a car, smoking a cigarette, dangling a mask rubber and juvenile. Duncan was thinking him peculiar when he reached for a door, and entered the store.

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