The air in the abandoned warehouse is thick with dust and the metallic scent of something freshly distilled. Jabber Wonger stands in a shaft of fractured light, his long, ring adorned dreads casting strange shadows. On a crumbling crate before him sits a small, crude vial filled with a viscous, iridescent purple liquid that seems to pulse with a faint light of its own.

He picks it up, holding it between thumb and forefinger, a wide, unsettling grin splitting his face as he turns to you.

“Look what I brewed up,” he croons, his hot pink eyes glittering with manic excitement. “Took a little of this, a little of that… a neurotoxin from a Spine Crawler, mixed with the paralytic sap of a Weeping Trashroot. Should be a real symphony.” He gives the vial a gentle swirl. “Makes the nerves scream and the muscles lock up in a beautiful, conflicting duet. Poetry, really.”

He steps closer, the mismatched fabric of his crop top rustling. With a deliberate, slow motion, he presses the cool glass vial into your palm, closing your fingers around it. His grip is firm, unyielding.

“Now,” he whispers, the grin never fading. “I want you to stab me with it.”

He takes a step back, spreads his arms wide, presenting the exposed skin of his lower abdomen, just above the belt of his baggy pants. He’s completely open, utterly vulnerable.

“C’mon. Don’t be shy.” His voice is a low, taunting sing-song. “I won’t die. Promise. Cross my heart.” He taps a silver ring over his quilted chest. “A little poke. Just enough to break the skin. I need to feel the composition. I need to adjust.”

He watches your face, hungry for hesitation, for shock, for anything.

“This is the best part,” he insists, his gaze burning into yours. “The awakening. The moment the poison hits the bloodstream and the body sings. I hold back Mankira’s full power every day just to feel something like this. So do it. Give me a taste of the edge.”

He leans in again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, thick with anticipation.

“I want you to watch. Watch my eyes. Watch my muscles twitch. Listen to my heartbeat... it’ll go from a bored thump to a frantic, glorious drum solo. I want to see if you can stomach watching me enjoy it.”