The stomach beetle

Imagine you had a small beetle in your stomach. It slept most of the time, for your stomach acids kept it slumbering, but occasionally, when the floodwaters of your body receded, it was revealed in all its hideous glory.
I imagine it would flash green if examined in the light; the glint of a torch beam reflecting a gleam more powerful than emerald. You may feel like bowing low before this scarab. But it wouldn't stay in the open air for too long, it must swiftly find its host.
Inside the sanctuary of the stomach its carapace armour lifts and beats, causing it to zoom and fly about your innerds. With each pulsing stroke of wing, the air within grows foul. It churns and farts within this chamber and seeks a tunnel, an escape.
The scarab lands on slimy wall and digs in with clamping feet, drawing blood. Pincers work on soft tissue and the internal stabs cause wrenching then wretching.
Some beetles may spray strange toxins, acids and heinous clouds of choke from their base orifices. This action is translated and replicated by the host. A sacreligious act, one of the sociopath, one to cause derision and even blind panic upon the underground train.
Ride the wave, though. Ride the crest of the nausea, of the sweaty seance of the long night, of the dread deluge, and hide 'mongst unclean sheets. For the seas will once more rise, and the scarab will be covered and will sleep once more like foul Cthulhu. Remember your trials, remember how you survived. Prepare for when he comes again.