But Puck's work was not done. He had a score to settle with Bottom, a weaver whose inflated sense of self-importance made him the perfect target for Puck's jests. With another vial of potion, and a donkey's bray to guide him, Puck transformed Bottom's appearance, much to the horror and disbelief of his companions.
The parasite was not a monster with fangs. It was a patient connoisseur of circumstance. It preferred to live off consent. It supplied him with details—names to call at the right hour, coins that jingled in pockets when he walked past, doors that conveniently forgot their locks. It rewarded him for curiosity and punished him for shame. When he tried to stop it, to press his palm against his temple and scrape the whisper away, it rose in him like bile, hot and bitter: headaches, nausea, a frantic aching for scraps that were no longer mere food but a symbol. To refuse the parasite was to admit he had been hollowed out; to accept it was to feel full.
At the center of it all is the internet sensation and adult star Little Puck