NuclearNed
Raconteur
The warning signs of the coming storm arrived about a month ago.
One sunny day I was happily mowing a hill that is fairly far away from my house. Bluebirds were singing, ponies were frolicking, and there was a rainbow in the sky. I was in a carefree state of mowing nirvana. There was a time when each and every mowing day was filled with anxiety and worry, but for the past couple of years I’ve gradually been lulled into a false sense of complacency. Had I been asked, I would have said that I had finally beaten my bee problem into submission; I had not been involved in any sort of bee-human altercation at any time in recent memory. All my once finely-tuned defenses were turned off and gathering dust. I should have known better.
As I mowed near the base of the hill, I first saw the large hole in the ground. Something, probably a skunk, had discovered a nest of bees. Under the cover of night, it had taken them out with extreme prejudice. There were still a few survivors angrily surveying the smoldering remains of their base, but the main threat had been obliterated. Pieces and parts of the base along with dozens of tiny bee corpses were strewn around randomly on the ground. The battle must have been epic. There was a time when I would have stopped to admire the skill with which my potential ally had dispatched the enemy, but instead I just stupidly plodded along behind my mower. Never mind the fact that the enemy was clearly within my realm, war no longer had any interest for me.
I had been warned, but my eyes were closed. A few weeks later, I was taught a severe lesson.
It happened during a week that my wife was out of town. In hindsight, I now realize that this must have been part of the bees’ carefully drawn plans. Since I am highly allergic to bee stings, it would be to their advantage if nobody was around to give me aid in the event of an emergency. Also, the very afternoon of the attack I had been to the allergist for my monthly bee shots, which are comprised of small amounts of venom. In other words, on that day my immune system had already been stressed as much as my doctor felt was safe; more venom could trigger a series of events that would end in a horribly suffocating death for me. Very suspiciously, the bees had somehow become privy to my shot schedule. I think the wife may have tipped them off.
I had barely been mowing any time at all, and I was still up on the hill right next to my house. Bristling with weaponry, they silently watched with cold, beady eyes as I gradually approached their main base of operations. Their preparations had paid off; I was completely unsuspecting. With perfect discipline not a single one of them sprung from their holes until I was in the optimum position, completely exposed and defenseless. Their commanders made anxious soldiers wait while the mower deck passed over, then I took exactly one step past the nest. The command was given and their fury was unleashed. Their calculated attack was brutal and merciless; they covered me all over and began stinging with wild happy abandon.
Even though my skills were rusty, ancient instincts immediately kicked in and told me what to do. I left the mower to fend for itself, and my adrenaline-saturated legs hurried me far, far away like they always have done in these situations. Unfortunately, the bees must have studied my methods and anticipated this. Normally, distance from the nest would have saved me. This time, about a hundred feet away as I came to a panting stop, a cloud of bees plowed into me like a Mack truck. The attack resumed with renewed glee and the raw pain extracted something from me that I hope to never hear again: a groan of mixed agony and genuine fear. The bees were on my clothes and in my shoes, and there was nothing I could do to get away.
I heard a clap of thunder, and found myself somewhere else entirely.
It was a pleasant hilly land. The sun was shining very brightly, more brilliant than I had ever seen. I blinked and noticed an English gentleman in a tweed suit suddenly appear next to me. He was a giant, standing at least twenty feet tall, and he seemed to have a keen interest in me. Then I glanced around again at the landscape. There was a long line of men stretching all the way to the horizon, where it looked like there was an eternity of Disneyesque turnstiles, all full to capacity. Like the Englishman, they were all giants, much larger than normal men. Suddenly, it began to feel uncomfortably warm. As I looked at the line, I was surprised to discover that I recognized some of them. Among countless others, Tom Cruise was there, as well as my old gym teacher, several priests, Adam Lambert and a whole herd of enraged water buffalos. Damn, it was getting hot. Black clouds began to roll in and the sun was no longer to be seen. A torrential downpour of habanero-infused sandpaper condoms began falling from the sky, which seemed to agitate all those in the line who were now intently focused on me. In my growing horror and discomfort I turned to face the Englishman, who now had a finger pointing in my face. In a sinister voice he growled words which turned my blood to ice: “Night night, Bun Bun. Prepare thyself to snorgle – FOREVER!!!” He began a horrible laugh, and my mouth stretched open in a scream that never came out.
I came to in a flash and was ecstatically happy to be back to the agony of the bees, but now determined more than ever to live and pay more attention in church. A plan sprung to mind. As the bees continued their evil work, I immediately kicked off my boots and stripped off basically all my clothes.
Across the valley, my neighbor Carl and his wife Helen were working in their garden. My screams attracted Helen’s attention. She looked up just in time to see me streaking across my yard with arms flailing.
“What do you guess is going on over there?” she casually asked.
Carl didn’t even look up. “Probably just the usual.”
I managed to get inside to the safety of my house. I carried one of the bees in. IN MY HOME! IN MY BEDROOM! Where my wife sleeps… and my imaginary children play with their toys. He met his crushing end inside a paper towel, but slowly; I wanted him to feel it for as long as possible.
I took a few life-sustaining drugs and sat for a while as my immune system metabolized the flood of venom coursing through my veins into raw unbridled hatred. After a while, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to die. When I felt sufficiently recovered, I made my way back outside to the garage. Sadly, in my peacenik state I had neglected to keep stocked on bee-destroying poisons. I glanced with sad remembrance at the empty spot where the Colonel once slept. I had disgraced his memory. All I had was ant spray and a plastic container of a special chemical agent that I get from my local arms dealer, Amoco.
I scoped out the yard and found the nest. There were a few guards sitting on the ground around the entrance, but overall there was a sense of calm. No doubt the majority of the little bastards were deep in the nest, celebrating their victory. I approached swiftly from behind and sprayed them with the thick, foamy ant spray. It must not be as potent as the bee stuff; they twitched in agony for an eternity as I stood back, pleased with their suffering. Once I was satisfied that they had been neutralized, I poured a generous helping of the special chemical agent directly into the nest. For a few seconds, those inside wondered in amazement at the golden rain that was showering their queen. In a very short time the horror began to sink in as the bees began to feel the burning sensation on their skin. If I listened very carefully, I could hear their tiny little brains sizzling in their skulls. Each little life, all the babies, drones, soldiers and even the queen, ended in a satisfying pop.
After a long while of congratulating myself on claiming victory in such a hopeless situation, I slowly and painfully made my way back to the house to nurse my wounds. I considered myself lucky, and had learned my lesson.
Mark my words, bees: I’m back, and I’m going to rock your world.
One sunny day I was happily mowing a hill that is fairly far away from my house. Bluebirds were singing, ponies were frolicking, and there was a rainbow in the sky. I was in a carefree state of mowing nirvana. There was a time when each and every mowing day was filled with anxiety and worry, but for the past couple of years I’ve gradually been lulled into a false sense of complacency. Had I been asked, I would have said that I had finally beaten my bee problem into submission; I had not been involved in any sort of bee-human altercation at any time in recent memory. All my once finely-tuned defenses were turned off and gathering dust. I should have known better.
As I mowed near the base of the hill, I first saw the large hole in the ground. Something, probably a skunk, had discovered a nest of bees. Under the cover of night, it had taken them out with extreme prejudice. There were still a few survivors angrily surveying the smoldering remains of their base, but the main threat had been obliterated. Pieces and parts of the base along with dozens of tiny bee corpses were strewn around randomly on the ground. The battle must have been epic. There was a time when I would have stopped to admire the skill with which my potential ally had dispatched the enemy, but instead I just stupidly plodded along behind my mower. Never mind the fact that the enemy was clearly within my realm, war no longer had any interest for me.
I had been warned, but my eyes were closed. A few weeks later, I was taught a severe lesson.
It happened during a week that my wife was out of town. In hindsight, I now realize that this must have been part of the bees’ carefully drawn plans. Since I am highly allergic to bee stings, it would be to their advantage if nobody was around to give me aid in the event of an emergency. Also, the very afternoon of the attack I had been to the allergist for my monthly bee shots, which are comprised of small amounts of venom. In other words, on that day my immune system had already been stressed as much as my doctor felt was safe; more venom could trigger a series of events that would end in a horribly suffocating death for me. Very suspiciously, the bees had somehow become privy to my shot schedule. I think the wife may have tipped them off.
I had barely been mowing any time at all, and I was still up on the hill right next to my house. Bristling with weaponry, they silently watched with cold, beady eyes as I gradually approached their main base of operations. Their preparations had paid off; I was completely unsuspecting. With perfect discipline not a single one of them sprung from their holes until I was in the optimum position, completely exposed and defenseless. Their commanders made anxious soldiers wait while the mower deck passed over, then I took exactly one step past the nest. The command was given and their fury was unleashed. Their calculated attack was brutal and merciless; they covered me all over and began stinging with wild happy abandon.
Even though my skills were rusty, ancient instincts immediately kicked in and told me what to do. I left the mower to fend for itself, and my adrenaline-saturated legs hurried me far, far away like they always have done in these situations. Unfortunately, the bees must have studied my methods and anticipated this. Normally, distance from the nest would have saved me. This time, about a hundred feet away as I came to a panting stop, a cloud of bees plowed into me like a Mack truck. The attack resumed with renewed glee and the raw pain extracted something from me that I hope to never hear again: a groan of mixed agony and genuine fear. The bees were on my clothes and in my shoes, and there was nothing I could do to get away.
I heard a clap of thunder, and found myself somewhere else entirely.
It was a pleasant hilly land. The sun was shining very brightly, more brilliant than I had ever seen. I blinked and noticed an English gentleman in a tweed suit suddenly appear next to me. He was a giant, standing at least twenty feet tall, and he seemed to have a keen interest in me. Then I glanced around again at the landscape. There was a long line of men stretching all the way to the horizon, where it looked like there was an eternity of Disneyesque turnstiles, all full to capacity. Like the Englishman, they were all giants, much larger than normal men. Suddenly, it began to feel uncomfortably warm. As I looked at the line, I was surprised to discover that I recognized some of them. Among countless others, Tom Cruise was there, as well as my old gym teacher, several priests, Adam Lambert and a whole herd of enraged water buffalos. Damn, it was getting hot. Black clouds began to roll in and the sun was no longer to be seen. A torrential downpour of habanero-infused sandpaper condoms began falling from the sky, which seemed to agitate all those in the line who were now intently focused on me. In my growing horror and discomfort I turned to face the Englishman, who now had a finger pointing in my face. In a sinister voice he growled words which turned my blood to ice: “Night night, Bun Bun. Prepare thyself to snorgle – FOREVER!!!” He began a horrible laugh, and my mouth stretched open in a scream that never came out.
I came to in a flash and was ecstatically happy to be back to the agony of the bees, but now determined more than ever to live and pay more attention in church. A plan sprung to mind. As the bees continued their evil work, I immediately kicked off my boots and stripped off basically all my clothes.
Across the valley, my neighbor Carl and his wife Helen were working in their garden. My screams attracted Helen’s attention. She looked up just in time to see me streaking across my yard with arms flailing.
“What do you guess is going on over there?” she casually asked.
Carl didn’t even look up. “Probably just the usual.”
I managed to get inside to the safety of my house. I carried one of the bees in. IN MY HOME! IN MY BEDROOM! Where my wife sleeps… and my imaginary children play with their toys. He met his crushing end inside a paper towel, but slowly; I wanted him to feel it for as long as possible.
I took a few life-sustaining drugs and sat for a while as my immune system metabolized the flood of venom coursing through my veins into raw unbridled hatred. After a while, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to die. When I felt sufficiently recovered, I made my way back outside to the garage. Sadly, in my peacenik state I had neglected to keep stocked on bee-destroying poisons. I glanced with sad remembrance at the empty spot where the Colonel once slept. I had disgraced his memory. All I had was ant spray and a plastic container of a special chemical agent that I get from my local arms dealer, Amoco.
I scoped out the yard and found the nest. There were a few guards sitting on the ground around the entrance, but overall there was a sense of calm. No doubt the majority of the little bastards were deep in the nest, celebrating their victory. I approached swiftly from behind and sprayed them with the thick, foamy ant spray. It must not be as potent as the bee stuff; they twitched in agony for an eternity as I stood back, pleased with their suffering. Once I was satisfied that they had been neutralized, I poured a generous helping of the special chemical agent directly into the nest. For a few seconds, those inside wondered in amazement at the golden rain that was showering their queen. In a very short time the horror began to sink in as the bees began to feel the burning sensation on their skin. If I listened very carefully, I could hear their tiny little brains sizzling in their skulls. Each little life, all the babies, drones, soldiers and even the queen, ended in a satisfying pop.
After a long while of congratulating myself on claiming victory in such a hopeless situation, I slowly and painfully made my way back to the house to nurse my wounds. I considered myself lucky, and had learned my lesson.
Mark my words, bees: I’m back, and I’m going to rock your world.
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