Dreams about flying scorpions in the family house in Alaska do not improve my sleep. It was scuttling around and crawling up things and flying, cross between the actions of a cockroach and an enraged wasp. Dad was not wearing street clothes, and no shoes, but was keeping an eye on it and telling about what it was doing and recommending courses of action. It flew at my face; I put something between my face and it and it bounced off when I whacked it like a badminton birdie. Mama finally stepped on its head wearing her old wear-around-the-house sneakers.

Flying scorpions are a genetic "improvement" that I do not recommend.