re: what is the GOAT wasp spray?

I wrote this little story a while back about a wasp experience.




The tower loomed ominously before me, its apex my destination, to read the numbers and signs inscribed there, and to fulfill my duty. And so, with gloved hands and hard hat on my head, I headed upwards, facing 160' of sheer ladders.

Hand over hand, rung by rung I climbed making my ascent with haste, as I wished the labor to be done. My rapid pace nearly cost me, for a single obstruction on a rung caused me not to find sure purchase and slip a bit, luckily fate and three other holds saw me able to continue my task, and not lie in a crumpled, broken heap far below.

So, I made my skyward, barely stopping to catch my breath, my heart pounding, arms beginning to ache, yet the top deck nearly there I pushed on, for rest would be better with the last ladder bested and nothing but the easier descent ahead. I stepped off the last rung onto that top deck, pumped and ready for a brief rest...but rest, it seems, would not be found.

For the moment I stepped onto that grating suspended so high above, THEY attacked, dozens of them!. Wasps! Those stinging scorpions of the sky, little Insectoid dive bombers.

They attacked with a fury, and luckily I had had the forethought to bring along a can of wasp spray, which I deftly drew out of my back pocket and blasted a stream in a wide arc in front of me, felling several in a single blast, their instant paralysis causing them to drop out of the air like tiny winged pebbles. But there were many more, hovering and diving and flying all around.

Aim and blast, aim and blast, yet more appearing with each one I dropped, like goblins emerging from hidden warrens.
I began to feel my can get lighter, my ammunition dwindling. I glanced down to see another can, rusty and ageworn, a relic from another battle, but I was outgunned, so I swiftly reached down with my free hand and snatched it up. Success! I felt the liquid weight slosh around in the bottom. And just in time, one flew in from my peripheral and I swung it towards the foul beast and pulled the trigger. The resulting blast knocked it from flight.

So there I stood, like a gunslinger of old, two death dealers in my hands as the wind whipped around me in that lofty place of pitched battle. Still the swarm buzzed around me, but with two trigger fingers working I sent one after another to meet their maker. I was a blur, swinging this way and that, blasting the hovering host out of the sky.

Then, all of a sudden one came out of nowhere, right in front of my face, too close to shoot. It flew into my shirt and in a panic I slammed a can against my chest in an attempt to squash it. And squash it I did, but with its death knell it plunged its stinger into my breast, spreading it's foul poison into my veins. I winced with pain, but struggled on, knowing there would be more stings to come if I did not finish the fight. And so I continued to deal my liquid death with a furrowed brow. The deck and railing was now soaked with the fatal chemical concoction, its familiar smell wafting in my nostrils.

Much of the swarm had dissipated, yet I knew they lurked in hidden nests, waiting, and I felt vengeance well up inside of me, emanating from the stinging sensation coursing through my chest. I dropped to one knee and set a can down, and in its place picked up a massive valve wrench, the weight of it heavy in my gloved hand. I swung it mightily and struck it thrice against the railing, each strike making the metal ring with the dull peal of a broken bell. I called the wasps forth again, dating them to face me. Thrice more I struck the rail, the entire deck reverberated with that low, clanging "BONG!, BONG!, BONG!"
Then the swarm emerged again, and I was ready for them, dropping the wrench and letting it crash to the grating and picking up the other can, nearly empty but thirsty for a few more kills. They flew from behind lights and under grates, buzzing with renewed fury at the menace that had slain so many of their carapaced comrades. Again and again I let the streams of liquid hate fly, each trigger pull sending another wasp to its doom in a long, slow fall.

They came from every side, swooping at me, sometimes so close I had to swat them with the cans themselves. One came close and I pulled the trigger, only to have it sputter and go empty. I dropped it and swung with an open palm at my attacker, closing my fist and hearing the satisfying crunch as it was crushed within my glove.

One can left yet rapidly dwindling, I grabbed again the wrench and hammered it into a pipe, calling out the last remnants of the horde, searching in vain for the best that I might kill all those future soldiers, but it was for naught. Blasting a few stragglers with the last of my ammo, I took my reading and turned towards the ladder to make my descent, leaving the can with scarce, but present, liquid, up there for the next man to make the climb. A few wasps still hovered high in the air, an ominous reminder that this battle would never be over, and that they would lie in wait for our next meeting, their numbers renewed with time.

They would be ready. And so would I.