“Don’t move a muscle!” the man in the woolly balaclava shouts, defying years of hushed, reverent tones in the bank.
Startled, your arms wave spasmodically. The gun in his hand goes off. A puff of gas. The smell of cordite. A percussive bang. Searing heat.
And then, maddening blips, burps, and flashes of light until…a pattern emerges. Ha-kussssh.
She is a vibrant, perky, and pesky wasp you cannot see. Cannot feel her wet sponge eroding your dignity. No scent passes your olfactory nerves. Ha-kussssh.
You would grin and bear it, Ha-kussssh, but you cannot move a muscle.