This is one of the nasty-ass wasps that attacked Paul in a feverish squadron a week ago Sunday.
He screamed, of course, and ran inside, flailing his arms. Then a week later they attacked again, and this time he screamed in pain so loudly and made so much noise crashing through the door that half the village came running to see what was happening. Our neighbors clucked in sympathy, and one grandma rubbed a brass ring on the raised red spots where Paul had been stung.
So, of course, Paul had had enough and decided to go all Wile E. Coyote on ’em. He bought a big can of bug bomb and tippy-toed across the front porch to spray them. In seconds they were on him. Gain with the flailing. Less screaming the third time, though.