I couldn’t fathom living out my years without answers. I was desperate. Enough to override the small downside risk of becoming a flesh Muppet for a pervert trucker. If I didn’t go, I’d always wonder. And the regret would join desperation in consuming me, like the wasp larva that devours the spider.

25 Yet.

26 I’d pay to see that.

27 One of your more promiscuous primates, with arguably redder, and more tumescent bottoms, even than baboons.

28 Which is a very real thing. The insect world is riddled with parasites that take control of a host’s brain, causing them to act against their best interests. The Costa Rican wasp Hymenoepimecis argyraphaga lays its eggs inside orb spiders. The hatched larva injects a toxin that causes the spider to spin a web specifically tailored to support the larva’s cocoon. Once finished, the little wasp grub devours the spider and takes up residence inside the custom house it forced the spider to build.

29 The basal ganglia.

CHAPTER SIX

Who selects a full-sized jar of dill pickles as their snack? Patton, that’s who. And he wasn’t even eating them. Just warming them in his crotch for later.

“What?” he said, noticing my side-eye. “You want one?”

“I mean, I might have taken one before, but now they’re the same temperature as your balls.”

“Temperature is temperature, Ben.”

“Yeah, but now it will be impossible to eat one without thinking oh this is the exact same temperature as Patton’s balls; a balmy ninety-three degrees.”³⁰

Patton shrugged. “Some people might not think that’s such a bad thing.”

I twisted in my seat, looking away from the road, exclaiming, “Who?”

“People.” He sat quietly for a few seconds, then presented a baggie from inside his jacket. “Shrooms?”

“Not right now.”

“Aunt Lisa’s personal stuff.”

“Aunt Lisa is going to federal prison one of these days, you know that, right?”

Patton scoffed. “You underestimate Aunt Lisa. She’s a pro. Her grow operation is untraceable. Underground. Literally. Some say it was an old fallout shelter or missile silo or something. Come on.” He took one out of the bag and stuck it under my nose.

“No!” I said, slapping it onto the floor.

“Dude!” said Patton. He retrieved it and blew it off.

I tried to put some calm into my voice. “...Not yet anyway. Not until we’ve got flies in the water.”

Patton could drive me absolutely nuts sometimes, but he was, without exaggeration, the reason I had survived middle school. As a student I’d had an impossible time holding back the never-ending avalanche of facts that overwhelmed my defenses, and I never knew what would be next out of my mouth. A kid who asked to trade lunches might receive a short lecture on Ariolimax dolichophallus, banana slugs who often trade and eat each other’s penises for lunch. Show and tell was, predictably, always a whole event. It was annoying. I was annoying. A constant and reliable irritant, unfailingly bringing things back to the science of bug fuckery. Not only did it drive away any other kids who might have become my friends in different circumstances, but I was actively disliked. And I couldn’t argue with them. I didn’t like me either.