Wasps

Look, it's like this, he said. Andy Warhol never did anything important. In fact, he was responsible for the deterioration of the entire art world into a soulless commodity market for the elite.

I could give a shit about Andy Warhol, she retorted. What is bugging me is those wasps you've been neglecting outside our front door. When are you gonna deal with that?

It was true that he hadn't dealt with the wasps, but neglect wasn't the right word. Truth be told, he liked to let them build for awhile, getting up their hopes that this time they'd really be able to make something happen, then dash their dreams in one fell swoop of pressurized poison. There was something really satisfying about the destruction of weeks worth of nest-building, the carefully constructed paper tubes filled with larvae that would never experience the freedom of flight.

Years of writing scathing indictments of the artists and galleries in Chicago had brought out a sadistic streak in him. As he rummaged around in the garage for his can of Raid, he felt sorry for the wasps for the first time. Still, he couldn't be dodging wasps every time he left his house. He found the can, and with a sigh of resignation, went out to face the enemy.