“Say hello to the jellyfish, Boris.”
Boris, in human drag, for once, glares at Pierre, and grips the pitcher with both hands. The contents of the jug swirl their tentacles lazily: One of them flips almost out of solution, dislodging an impaled cocktail cherry. “Will get you for this,” Boris threatens. The smoky air around his head is a-swirl with daemonic visions of vengeance.
Su Ang stares intently at Pierre who is watching Boris as he raises the jug to his lips and begins to drink. The baby jellyfish — small, pale blue, with cuboid bells and four clusters of tentacles trailing from each corner — slips down easily. Boris winces momentarily as the nematocysts let rip inside his mouth, but in a moment or so, the cubozoan slips down, and in the meantime, his biophysics model clips the extent of the damage to his stinger-ruptured oropharynx.
“Wow,” he says, taking another slurp of sea wasp margaritas. “Don't try this at home, fleshboy.”
“Here.” Pierre reaches out. “Can I?”
“Invent your own damn poison,” Boris sneers — but he releases the jug and passes it to Pierre, who raises it and drinks. The cubozoan cocktail reminds him of fruit jelly drinks in a hot Hong Kong summer. The stinging in his palate is sharp but fades rapidly, producing an intimate burn when the alcohol hits the mild welts that are all this universe will permit the lethal medusa to inflict on him.
“Not bad,” says Pierre, wiping a stray loop of tentacle off his chin.
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