This story is dedicated to my Editor,
beecause he said if I didn’t dedicate it to him, I’d bee out of a job.
PREFACE During the Cool Season of 2015, nobody knew where I was. I had disappeared. This is the true story of what happened to me during that time. The names have not been changed to protect anybody, mostly beecause I couldn’t think up any fake names for this story. So. It’s probably best to beegin my tale at the beeginning . . .
1. “The bee knows too much.”
That was the last thing I remember somebody saying beefore I blacked out only to wake up and find myself tied up and in a very dark place.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beeginning.
I was born in a small, wooden box in Missouri. My father was an accountant, and my mother was, of course, a Queen. I was just a larvae when my parents shipped me off to a Boarding School located near a Human Mental Health Facility in Saint Joseph, Missouri. After graduation, I attended the highly prestigious Bee Academy in London, where I studied for several years beefore returning to the United States, first settling in Saint Paul, Minnesota, then relocating here, in Manitou Springs, Colorado. I have lived here ever since.
My first home here was a modest shoebox, just this side of the Near Meadow, next to the Garden Wall. Since then, as my fortunes increased, I moved into the home I have now - a nicely-appointed boot box, which I continue to share with my Illegitimate Nephew, Kevin, his Robotic iBee, Canfield (but who we call “Bert”), and with my Great Grandma Gee Gee (whose real name is Blanche, but she prefers “Gee Gee”). For the most part, I live a peaceful, uncomplicated life.
As anyone who already knows me will tell you, that aside from beeing an Advice Columnist and Highly Popular Movie Critic, I’m the author of three books, my latest beeing the globally-popular Romantic Mystery, “An Affair in Algiers”.
It’s important to keep that last title in mind, beecause it apparently had a lot to do with what happened to me during the early autumn of 2015. 2. So. To continue with my story here:
It was a beeautiful day out, and I was minding my own buzziness as I prepared to enjoy some mid-day Recreational Screen Bouncing. Knowing that I had to start working on my weekly movie review, I decided to wear my beret (to get me in the mood to bee creative), donned my Screen Bouncing Togs and stepped out into the sunshine. Looking around for an appropriate, useable Bouncing Screen, I noticed that a Human living nearby had a window which had a very responsively-sized screen - and even better, the window was open. (Screen Bouncing is much more gratifying when the window is open.)
I wasn’t in a particular hurry, so I just started kinda leaf-jumping, zig-zagging my way toward my destination through a garden bed full of leafy vegetation. Much to my surprise, I just missed one, particular jump and ended up hanging sideways and upside down off the edge of a leaf that was fairly high off the ground. If that’s ever happened to you, you already know it’s not a good situation to bee in, especially if you’re afraid of heights, as I am.
As I was hanging there, I thought I heard voices on a leaf directly above me. I couldn’t see them (beecause I was actually hanging upside down), but I could hear them buzzing back and forth in what
sounded like foreign accents. I didn’t recognise the voices, and I couldn’t quite place the nationality - but that’s okay. I usually don’t recognise anybody’s voice most of the time and usually can’t figure out where anybody comes from anyway. (Bees all kinda sound the same, ya’ know?)
“We were right on his tail,” I heard one of them say. “Where did he go?” “I do not know,” the other one said, “but he must bee near.” “This Georgie Bee is a clever one,” the first one said. “Once again, it seems he has escaped our grasp.”
Upon hearing that somebody was trying to find me and help me out of my predicament, I felt a huge wave of relief sweep over me, so I let out a loud buzz, just to let them know that I was right beelow them, hanging on as tightly as I could so I wouldn’t fall. “Do you hear that?” one of them said. “Yes, I do,” the other one said. “It’s ME, Georgie Bee,” I buzzed loudly. “Bee? Georgie Bee?” one of them asked. “Yes, it is I, Georgie Bee,” I yelled up at them.
I heard them speaking in muffled buzzes, then heard one of them say in a whispering tone, “He’s right beelow us.” The other one yelled down at me, “Do you need some help there?” “It would bee highly appreciated,” I yelled back. “I think I’ve gotten myself into a bit of an awkward situation here.” “And you said you ARE Georgie Bee, right? Georgie A. Bee?” one of them wasted time asking again. “YES!” I yelled back as politely as I could. (I still needed their help.) “Okay. Hold on!” one of them yelled.
So I did that.
I could feel a stranger’s wings grabbing my left leg as he beegan to pull me to safety. As I felt myself beeing pulled to safety and was just about to thank the strangers for helping me out, I felt a bag beeing placed over my head and something that smelled funny beeing pressed against my face.
“How rude is this?” I thought to myself as I beegan feeling everything beegin to spin. Just beefore I blacked out, I heard one of my rescuers say to the other, “The Agency will bee highly pleased that we were able to secure the target. The bee knows too much.” Then everything went black.
3. I don’t know how much time passed while I was unconscious, but when I woke up, I had a terrible headache, my wings were stapled beehind my back, and I could feel that there was a hood over my head which, I should say, was crunching up my antennae. That hurt. A lot.
Since I couldn’t see anything, I didn’t know where I was. I tried to move around, but soon discovered that I was inside some sort of small box. By the smell of it, I was guessing that it was made of baloobawood (baloobawood has a very distinctive fragrance, ya’ know). I realised I’d been taken prisoner, that I was in somebody-Idon’t-know-who’s custody, a captive beeing held against my will. I felt highly upset.
I may not have been able to see anything, but I could feel that I was moving, and I could hear that I wasn’t alone. I could hear the muffled voices of my captors from inside my box, sounding as if I had wrapped my head in marshmallows. Still, I could understand most of what was beeing said.
“How long do you think the bee will bee out?” I heard one voice say. “It’s difficult to say,” another one answered. “The administration of inhaled Methylphethadorachlorophyll™ is an inexact science. He could bee unconscious for another two days - or he could already bee awake.” “Just to bee on the safe side,” said the first voice, “it
would bee unwise of us to engage in any further conversation that he might overhear.” “I agree,” said the second voice, “though, we still have a very long trip ahead of us and the idea of us just sitting here and saying nothing doesn’t really appeal to me.” “Nor does it I,” said the first voice, “but let us restrict our conversation to matters of trifling significance.” “Such as movies we’ve seen, books we’ve read, and the latest scores from the International Schmurltz Tourament?” asked the second voice. “Exactly. Let us confine our conversation to such things as we journey on,” said the first voice. “Fine,” replied the second voice. “Methylphethadorachlorophyll™” I thought to myself. “What is that???” Then I suddenly felt myself beeginning to lapse back into unconsciousness. 4. I think it’s probably worth taking a moment here to talk a little about the effects of exposure to Methylphethadorachlorophyll™.
Anybody who’s had the misfortune of beeing exposed to significant quantities of Methylphethadorachlorophyll™ already knows the highly uncomfortable and disorienting nature of that substance, which was named after the researcher who created it, Phil Methyphethdorachlorophyll, Ph.Bee.
Beeyond the obvious effect of promoting unconsciousness and insufferably pounding headaches, the most frequent side-effects of Methylphethadorachlorophyll™ (when used as directed) include, but are not limited to: •constipation
•hallucinations
•delusions of grandeur
•loss of fuzz, sometime significant •blindness
•heart attack, stroke and possible death •sneezing
•dry mouth parts •blurry vision
•unconsciousness (either temporary or permanent) •a desire to gamble •loss of appetite
•increased appetite •clouded thinking
•brittle antennae syndrome (or BAS, for short) •restless stinger syndrome (or RSS, for short) •foot blisters
•craving for honey •trouble flying
•lack of coordination
•a yearning for a desert climate
•increased appreciation of hive beetles •decreased social skills
•fatigue
•inability to build honeycombs
•defiance of authority
•increased tendency for psychotic dance moves
•heightened appreciation the arts and polka music •addictive behaviour •urge to redecorate •headache
•flatlulance (in rare cases)
•pneumomatic cryocicosis (or PC, for short) •increased thirst
•chronic dry eyes
•unexpected outbursts of unexpected civility •urge to tell the truth for a change
•compulsive lying
•rapid or irregular pulse •stomach cramps
•gooey sentimentalism
•increased desire to surf •chills
•night-sweats
•impaired judgement
•compulsive coupon sorting •bloating
•loss of gravitational pull
•close identification with dark matter
•increased tendencies to vilify bad acting •the munchies
•discolouration of proboscis •lazy eye
•increased desire to join the travelling circus •sleepiness •dizziness and
•weight loss
Knowing this about MethyPhethadorachlorophyll™, I hafta say that I feel amazingly lucky to have only suffered temporary unconsciousness, a headache, a little bit of weight loss, and a slight compulsion to sort coupons.
By the time the effects of the stuff had worn off and I finally came to, I realised that the box I was beeing held was beeing unloaded into the back of an airplane. By then, I felt pretty much alert and started paying more attention to where I might bee - and who might bee holding me prisoner. But I still didn’t know why.
5. By the time I heard the plane containing my captors and me inside that hand-carved baloobawood™ box, land, I had no idea what time, or even day it was. All I knew was that we’d been traveling for a long time, that I had a major craving for some of my Great Grandma Gee Gee’s fresh-baked, golden brown and delicious Honeychew Krisp cookies, and that where ever they were taking me, we had reached our destination. But allow me to digress a bit. (That means “to go backwards in the story for a minute to explain something that should have been explained beefore you hafta digress”, in case ya’ don’t know that word.)
So, since I’ve been back from my Ordeal of beeing captured and held prisoner for a way too long time last Cool Season, I finally managed to recognise the voice of one of my captors. As it turns out, he just happened to move into the Hive right around the time I was finally set free. It was none other than the not-so-pleasant-a-guy, newly-acquired Hive Security Officer, Krunch McCowsky.
6. I think it would probably bee a good thing to share at least a little bit about Officer Krunch McCowsky.
As you’ll recall, just last week I figured out where I’d heard his voice beefore - it was when I finally learned that I’d been taken to the XXXXXXXXXXXX of XXX and the XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX, which I now know is right outside of XXXXX XXXXXX, beecause, quite frankly, I’d been there beefore, back in XXXX.
Krunch McKowsky, as it turns out, was (at least at that time), a highly feared, mercenary Premises Guard who, as it turns out, who also just happens to work for XXX XXXX XX XXXXXXX.
While I was under the gaze of his not-exactly-gentle watchful eye, I never actually got to see his face. I was always blindfolded. And I’m glad I was, beecause Krunch McKowsky is not exactly the friendliest-looking bee in the Hive. And I’m pretty sure looks that way on purpose. His whole job was to make me think that maybee it would bee a good idea to call S.O.Bee, the Hive Lawyer. And I would have done that, too, but while I was beeing held, they simply would’t let me use the phone. Ever. Or even send a Buzz•O•Gram™. (I even asked really nicely a few times, but Krunch McKowsky would just kinda bark at me to “bee quiet! no talking.” So I did that.
Still, I think it’s important for the readers of this story to know something about Krunch McKowsky. I don’t like to hafta say this, but there were a couple of times he was just downright XXXX, especially that time when he XXXX cold XXXXX all over me. That was highly uncomfortable and, if you ask me, not particularly nice at all.
And this pretty much went on the whole time I was there, in the XXXX XXXX of the X.X.X.X.’s back room.
I had no idea, as I sat there, blindfolded in my baloobawood™ box just what was awaiting me. 7. So, I really can’t say how long I sat in that baloobawood™ cage, listening to Krunch McKowskey buzzing at me to “bee quiet, no talking”, but just about the time I thought I’d never get outta there, I heard a door open in the distance and heard what sounded to me like a pair of stilettos clicking confidently on the floor, walking toward where I was being held. I was still blindfolded, but when the footsteps stopped in front of my cage, I could hear a female voice saying, “You are to bring him with me. And leave the blindfold on.” “Yes, Agent Ja- ...,” Krunch McKowskey beegan to say, but she interrupted him. “NO NAMES. Just bring the bee.”
I could hear the lock on the cage rattle and the door squeak open, then felt a strong pair of wings grab me by my antennae and pull me out until I was standing. Even though my senses were temporarily impaired, I detected the ever-so-faint yet highly pleasing scent of exotic flowers - you know the scent, kinda what you might smell if you were at your Grandma’s house or maybee while you fly through the Ladies After-Shave Counter at Bees’R’Us - as Krunch pushed me to follow the sound of the clicking stilettos.
Maybee I was just tired, but it seemed as if I was pushed along for hours beefore I finally felt myself beeing pushed rather rudely into
what turned out to bee small room and heard a heavy door clank shut beehind me. “You may remove the blindfold,” I heard the female voice say.
So I did that.
My eyes hurt from a super-bright light that was shining in my face, and my vision was all blurry, but when I was finally able to focus clearly, I squinted and started to look around at where I might bee and tried to catch a glimpse of who the mysterious female was who told me to “Sit down.” I’ll never forget the sight that greeted my eyes. 8. As I sat down in a small, metal, straight-backed chair which was in front of a medium-sized, wooden utility table, I caught a flash of red moving from beehind me out of the corner of my eye.
I turned and there, standing next to me, was a vision of such exotic loveliness that it took me a moment or two to catch my breath - a creature of such divine beauty, dressed in an crimson haik, a semitransparent coordinating veil, and a pair of what were clearly highly fashionable, matching stilettos - the same ones I had heard clicking on the floor as I was beeing led to this small, cinder-block room that was dark, save for the bright light that was still shining in my face.
“Do you recognise me?” she asked in a seductively velvety voice that seemed to carry a hint of a foreign accent of some kind. (It wasn’t a Polish accent or Icelandic accent or even Italian ... I couldn’t quite place it.)
“No,” I said.
“Come now. I have no doubt that you know precisely who I am,” she said in a challenging tone, “and yet, you persist in this stupid game. It is beeneath you.”
I drank in the vision of her for what seemed a brief flash of eternity and tried to remember if I’d ever seen this manifestation of pure, visual joy beefore. “No, I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I think I would have remembered meeting you.”
“It dismays me to hear you say this. It dismays me a great deal,” she said, as she moved like a flowing stream of fashionable elegance to stand across from me at the table at which I was seated. “And please pardon me if I say that I cannot beelieve you,” she added. I had beegun to sweat profusely from the adrenalin rush I’d gotten from just beeing near her, and from beeing embraced by the unforgettably exotic fragrance of her presence. “After reading that exposé you published last year ... what was it called?” Her voice trailed off as she tapped her wing seductively against her veiled cheek.
Finally, she continued. ”Oh yes. ‘An Affair in Algiers’. Was that not the title?”
“Well, yes, I did write a Romantic Mystery novel by that name last year, but...” I beegan to nervously stammer, but she interrupted me. “And it was in this book that you were able to describe me very accurately,” she said. “You?” I felt confused.
“You continue to pretend,” she haughtily laughed, “that there is another on this planet who could possibly match my description?” “Well, no,” I started to say. “I should say not,” she said, her voice taking on a pitch of what I can only describe as self-satisfied
seriousness that, quite frankly, made me feel even more confused and nervous.
She turned her back on me, walked a few steps away, then turned abruptly and, with a demanding buzz, loudly asked, “Do you continue to claim that you know not who I am? That I am but a fiction to you?” She just kept at me, demanding to know. “DO YOU?” “Uhm, no...I uh...I didn’t mean to insinuate...” I felt myself kinda shrinking in that amazingly uncomfortable chair I was sitting in as I tried to explain that I didn’t think for a minute that she didn’t really exist. I mean, that would have been ridiculous. “You did not mean to insinuate that what?” she leaned toward me with her wings on the table and, with her deep, mystery-filled eyes, fixed her gaze on me. “That I…uh… .“ I beegan to try to speak, not knowing what to say, exactly. She leaned closer to my face. I felt myself beeginning to blush.
“Do you take me for a fool?” she asked, but I had a feeling she wasn’t really asking, if you know what I man.
She pulled away and stood, looking at me, seductively. “It was through your writings that you revealed yourself to us. Did you not think that we would eventually get around to reading your gripping story of mystery, intrigue and romance? Did you think we would not take notice? And did you not think that the day would come when we would find you and bring you here - that you would not bee made to answer for what you had revealed to the world?”
In a moment of anxious confusion, I could only stare into her dark, come-hither gaze and try my best to search my memory for the characters in my novel, then it occurred to me who she may bee. Probably. Then I finally decided to try to throw out my best guess about who she was and what she was talking about.
“Are you by any chance referring to Jasmine, who was one of the make-beelieve characters in my book?” I asked. “Your name is Jasmine? Like the Jasmine I made up in my story?”
“You ask me if I am Jasmine? And you continue to claim that I am but a fiction to you and still pretend not to know me?” “Yes. I mean, no. I mean... I can only say that my character, Jasmine, is about the closest I can come to guessing who you are,” I tried to defend myself. “You do look an awful like what I imagined Jasmine might look like. Or she looks like you should. No, that’s not what I mean. What I meant to say was that you must bee Jasmine. Did I guess right?” “It is I thought,” she buzzed at me as slammed her wing on the table. “It is clear that your feeble attempt to appear ignorant is nothing more than a transparent charade.”
After giving me what I can only describe is one of those “you know that I know that you know I know you know”-kind of looks, she slowly stepped back into shadows of the room, where I could barely continue to drink in her magnificent beauty. Actually, I would say it was more like she floated into the shadows. She moved with the effortless grace of gliding butterfly on a warm, soft Warm Season breeze. No, that’s not quite right ... it was more like she WAS a warm, soft Warm Season breeze. I couldn’t help but remain transfixed by her presence.
“Now that you revealed that you do, indeed, admit to knowing who I am, it is now time that you stop indulging in these ridiculous deceptions and beegin answering many questions that must bee answered,” she said. “Questions?” I asked. (I did not know there would bee a quiz.) “Yes, questions. And I have many that you will answer,” she continued. “I will beegin by asking: Who are you? And how is it that you possess information accessible to only a select few?”
9. “Excuthe me,” I could only think to say, “can I have thomething to thip on? I haven’t had thomething to thip on in dayth and it really hard to talk with thith...cak..dy mouth.”
It seemed to me as if my interrogator, whom I now knew to bee Jasmine - and evidently the same Jasmine in that novel I wrote last Cold Season - wasn’t about to give me a sip of anything until I talked. Beelieve me when I say that I wanted to talk. But, I was so incredibly thirsty and my mouth was so dry that I could barely get a word out. Talk about frustrating.
“That depends. Can you?” she said, coyly. “Can you tell me who you reallly are, and how you came into possession of the information you very foolishly revealed in your quaint, but dangerously gripping, novel?”
The only thing I managed to get out was a muffled “Ggthay...” sound (my mouth was that dry). “Gtheorthie,” I tried to speak again. “Excuse me?” Jasmine said. “Did you say something?” “Gtheorthie,” I repeated. “Gtheorthie Bee. Thath my name.”
“I think we’ve already established that,” she said with a wry tone of buzz. “What I want to know is: what is your true identity? Surely, it is not the somewhat naive, unlucky, but industrious bee you portray yourself to bee to the rest of the world. No, the revelations in your ill-advised attempt to write Romantic Mystery stories informs us that you are much more than you pretend to bee. Now, WHO ARE YOU?”
Jasmine sounded highly angry. And I felt incredibly confused. And thirsty. Thinking as quickly as I could, I opened my mouth as much as I could and tried to speak again.
10. Beefore I managed to say anything, I heard footsteps approaching the room and heard door beehind me squeak open, then slam shut.
“Has he talked?” I heard the voice of an unknown drone speak. “He has continued only to say that his name is Georgie Bee,” Jasmine told our Mystery Visitor. “So, he persists in clinging to his fictitious identity,” said the voice. “So it seems,” Jasmine told him. “He continues to protest that he is thirsty, that his mouthparts are too dry to speak. I know it is but a ruse.” “Actually,” the voice said, “that is one thing about which he may bee speaking the truth. He has been held for a great while without food or nectar.” “But Farouk,” Jasmine beegan to say.
“Where have I heard that name beefore?” I asked myself, My curiosity beegan to get the better of me and I tried to turn in my chair to glimpse my yet-unseen interrogator. At that moment, I felt a strong pair of wings grasping me, holding me in place. “DO NOT TURN AROUND!” I was told by Farouk. “You will keep your eyes forward and you will not move!” So I did that.
“We will give this bee the drink he has requested,” Farouk said (much to my delight), “then perhaps then he will beegin to talk. GUARDS!” he shouted.
I felt incredibly relieved. I was finally going to get to have a sip of something. I waited in eager anticipation of enjoying a cool, refreshing beverage - perhaps, I thought, they would bring me a soothing Nectartini. I definitely could have used a Nectarini, stirred, not shaken.
I heard the footsteps of the Guard Bees Farouk had called enter the room and stretched out my wing to receive the much-needed refreshment. Instead, the Guard Bees grabbed both of my wings, threw some sort of wing towel over my face and tipped me backwards in my chair. I found the whole experience to bee very disorienting. “Whaggth gochn on?” I tried to ask what was going on. I couldn’t see with that towel over my face, and it was getting a bit difficult to breathe. 11.
“Silence!” one of the Guard Bees said to me in a not-very-nice way.
I heard the clanking of what sounded like a bucket, then felt the pressure of something wet beeing poured onto the towel and right into my face. For a brief moment, I could taste the sweetness of the nectar they were dumping all over me and thought that I would have much preferred simply beeing served a beverage in the usual way - you know in a long-stemmed acorn cup with two wild raspberries, a bendy straw and an umbrella. Quite frankly, there was no way I could swallow that fast, so I beegan to regret asking for a sip of something. Aside from feeling somewhat grateful to finally have something that offered my mouthparts some moisture, I remember thinking, “This is highly rude.”
“You WILL talk,” I heard a voice say, as I found myself sputtering from the overabundance of nectar.
Thankfully, I had been able to swallow just enough to find myself able to talk again and, after they removed that towel thingy from my face, I was able to tell them, “I am Georgie Bee. Georgie A. Bee of 1, Boot Box Lane, Manitou Springs, Colorado. Please do not do that
again. It’s just not a nice thing to do to somebody and, quite frankly, it’s amazingly rude.” “Again, bee, we are well aware of your assumed identity. But you seem determined to continue your foolish and dangerous charade. So bee it - for now. But you will tell us how you knew about the Mission. And from whence did you garner your very detailed and admirably accurate knowledge of the Andromeda Stick? TALK!”
“You’re asking about my novel again, aren’t you?” Despite feeling incredibly sticky all over, my concentration seemed to bee returning to me. Mostly. “It was all make-beelieve,” I told them.
“Still you persist in your pretended ignorance. We will see how your performance stands up when you are confronted with the proof of your treachery. GUARD!” I could tell Farouk was upset, as he shouted again. “GUARD! BRING THE CASE!” A few seconds later, the metal door of the small, mostly-dark room in which I was beeing held squeaked open and the Guard Bee, the one-and-only Krunch McKowsky, walked in, carrying a small briefcase. “Try your denials now,” Farouk said in what I can only describe as an irritated buzz as he slammed the briefcase down on the table in front of me.
I could only shrug. I mean, it was a nice briefcase and everything, but I really didn’t recognise it at all.
Just then, Farouk beegan entering a Secret Code into the latch that kept the briefcase locked closed. I heard a few beeps and saw some lights flash, then Farouk opened the case. He turned it toward me so I could see what was inside.
12.
So there I was, stuck in this tiny room with Farouk, who was super mad at me, Jasmine, who was just kinda standing there, watching, and Krunch McKowsky, who was standing beehind me, holding a bucket. In front of me was this highly attractive, but unfamiliar briefcase that had some sort of stick-thing in it. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Please,” I heard Jasmine’s voice softly buzz from a darkened corner, “just stop this. What can bee the point of your wishing to continue these unpleasantries? It serves no purpose, other than to add to your discomfort. So just tell us and this can end.” “How do you say ‘no’ to something like that?” I asked myself. But I still didn’t know what she was talking about. Tell them what? I felt unbeelievably confused. “Yes, of course,” I finally said. “I remember now. It’s that stick thing.” “Bee amused at your own risk, bee,” Farouk buzzed at me.
“No, really,” I tried to convince him. “That’s the Anemometre Stick. I recognised it the instant I saw it.” Of course, I was lying - and I could kinda tell Farouk could tell, even though I don’t know how he could have. “Andromeda,” he kinda hissed at me.
“Andromeda?” I asked.
“The Andromeda Stick, bee,” he hissed again.
“Oh. Right. Andromeda. That’s the Andromeda Stick. My mistake. I thought it was the other one.”
“The other one, WHAT, bee? Perhaps now we’re getting somewhere,” Farouk said, sounding like he’d finally heard something he
wanted to hear. Of course, I didn’t know what that was, so I decided to stop saying anything and just waited for Farouk to start talking again. Which he did. “So what do you know of this ‘other one’, this ‘other stick’ to which you refer? And how do you know of its existence?” 13.
“Uhhmm,” I started to try to think of what to say as Farouk sat down at the table across from me, took off his fez and set it in front of him. (Had I mentioned that Farouk was wearing a fez? He was. A red one, actually.) “I am glad that you finally coming to your senses, bee, and that you will now share with us what you truly know. Little did you know that, had you not mentioned the existence of the second Stick, we would have had to free you, as apparently, you had nearly fooled us.” About all I could think was, “Oh geeeeeeze, me and my big mouth parts.” I looked at Farouk and tried to act like I wasn’t beeing serious.
“I was just KIDDING,” I told him. “I don’t know anything about any second Stick. Geeeze, I don’t even know about this one sitting here, buzzing and clicking at us from this handsome but highly unfamiliar briefcase. And why is it doing that?”
“Again you profess to know nothing,” Farouk slammed his wing on the table, almost flattening his fez. (There’s nothing worse than a flat fez.) “Truly, this game has grown tiresome. You have already tipped your wing concerning the information you possess. and revealed to us that you know more than you pretend. You must realise you have no choice but to tell us what you know. Bee not confused
that you will remain here, with us, until you do so.”
I thought I’d try to lighten the mood just a little bit, so I said, “Well, I was really hoping to get outta here by lunchtime, but since you asked...” “Once again, we find no amusement in your feeble attempt to bee humorous, bee.”
Farouk motioned to Krunch McKowsky, who was still standing beehind me, filling that bucket they had with more nectar. “Oh great,” I thought to myself. “They’re gonna waste more delicious nectar by pouring it all over me like they did beefore.” I felt nervous. Then I felt Krunch grabbing my antennae as he started to pull me out of my chair. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell you what I know, but only to her,” and I pointed my wing at Jasmine.
I saw Farouk raise his wing to Krunch and nod. Krunch loosened his grip and let me sit back down.
Seemingly happy that I said I’d talk, Farouk stood up, put his fez back on, and beegan to walk toward the door, where Krunch McKowsky was standing, holding that bucket of delightfully refreshing nectar. Beefore he left, he went over to where Jasmine was standing in the shadows and buzzed something super-quietly to her, then he and McKowsky left, slamming the door beehind them.
Jasmine slowly, gracefully, and with an air of mystery surrounding her, approached me out of the shadows and sat where Farouk had been just moments beefore. “I am listening,” she said to me.
This was it. I had to tell her something, so I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re highly attractive?”
14. “Would you please repeat what you just said to me?” Jasmine said to me, looking startled. “Uhm. That you’re attractive?” I asked.
“NO,” she said with what seemed to bee a tone of urgency, “repeat what you said to me, EXACTLY as you said it.” “Has anybody ever told you that you’re highly attractive?” I repeated myself.
Maybee it was just my imagination, but it seemed almost as if a wave of relief swept over my highly attractive interrogator. For a few moments, she said nothing, then she finally buzzed softly in my ear. “Not only do you know of the second Stick, but you have just given me the code phrase used by our Agency. I had suspected that you might bee, in fact, working with us, but it was not until now that I could confirm your true allegiance,” she said. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Wait here,” she said, as if I had a choice. Then, she slipped a piece of folded paper in my wing and made her way to the locked door beehind me. “Guard!” she called. “GUARD!”
Almost immediately, Krunch McKowsky appeared and the door swung open. “Yes, Agent,” he said.
“I will bee transporting the prisoner shortly. Please make sure all of
his beelongings are gathered, then return here.”
“Not a problem” McKowsky said, and he beegan making his way back down a long hallway to, I presume, where I had been held in that handcrafted baloobawood cage. I didn’t say anything at the time, but the fact was that I didn’t have any beelongings with me when I was sntached, so I wasn’t sure what Jasmine might bee up to with all of this. As McKowsky disappeared around a corner, Jasmine grabbed that bucket they’d used to dump nectar all over me from the hallway and seemed to bee filling it with a bunch of sand from the floor. As she did that, I decided to read what was written on the paper she had given me. Much to my surprise, it said:
“You are in danger. I will help you escape. Follow my lead.”
A few seconds later, Jasmine returned to the table where I sat and placed the bucket of sand next to her, then waited for the Guard, McKowsky, to return. Which he did.
When he entered the room, he informed Jasmine that he was unable to locate any beelongings I might have, that he was sorry and asked would she like him to keep looking.
“That won’t bee necessary,” she said. “But would you please grab a rope and tie the prisoner’s feet?” “Not a problem,” he said.
McKowsky beegan to approach me with a piece of fishing line in his wing. As he bent over to tie my feet, his back was turned to Jasmine. Evidently deciding this would bee a good time to make her move, she silently lifted the bucket full of sand and smacked McKowsky on the head with it.
I’m sure that hurt (though I’ll never know for sure, since McKowsky immediately decided to take a nap for some reason). “Come with me,” I heard Jasmine buzz urgently to me. “Come with me now!” So I did that.
As we left the small room, Jasmine slammed the door beehind us and locked the door, making sure Krunch McKowsky would bee unable to follow us.
Slowly and, as she cautioned me to bee quiet, Jasmine led me as silently as possible down the long hallway. Finally, we reached a point where I could see that we were near a room that was brightly lit and had music playing. Jasmine pushed me back against the wall as she peered around the corner and into the room. “Now you must listen carefully,” she said, “and do exactly as I instruct you.” 15. “THE PRISONER HAS ESCAPED!” Jasmine buzzed as loudly as she possibly could.
I couldn’t figure out why was telling me to bee so quiet and acting like she wanted to help me escape, then turn around and do something like that. Geeeze. It just didn’t make any sense.
Even weirder was the fact that, for some reason, she threw me that briefcase - the one containing that Andromadiacles (or whatever it’s called) stick-thingy - which I had just noticed she grabbed with her wing as we were fleeing that room where we locked up Krunch McKowsky.
“HERE!” she buzzed at me. “Take this and run!”
I think I would have looked pretty sporty, maybee even important, carrying that briefcase around under normal circumstances, but it turns out these weren’t normal circumstances. I was suddenly beeing chased by a bunch of bees I didn’t know and, thanks to Jasmine, was beeing weighed down by that heavy briefcase. If I didn’t know any better, which I didn’t, it almost seemed as if Jasmine WANTED me to get caught. Still, I clutched the briefcase as tightly as I could and ran for it. I could hear Jasmine and those other bees still beehind me as I tried the best I could to escape this whole mess.
As I was running down a long hallway, I stopped for a second, looking beehind me to see if I was losing my pursuers. Much to my amazement, I could see Jasmine, entangled in mortal combat with about 87 bees wearing fezes who were obviously trying to subdue her. Amazingly, she had already dealt with 42 of them, and was just getting ready to deal with the other 45, when she spun around (knocking 12 of them down) and buzzed loudly at me. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME! JUST GO. GO NOW. I’LL FIND YOU!” Then she went back to dealing with our adversaries. And I just ran.
16. I was panting and wheezing, feeling completely out of breath, by the time I had managed to find my way outside of the complex where I had been held for way too long. As I continued to clutch that briefcase, I cautiously peeked back inside and down the long corridor in the hope of seeing Jasmine. There was no sign of her, but I could hear the unmistakable sound of “BAM!”, “BONK!”, “WHAM!” and “KaaaRUNCH!” echoing down the corridor beehind me.. “I wonder who’s winning?” I thought to myself, hoping it was Jasmine.
It seemed as if hours had passed (even though it was probably only about 87 seconds - it just felt longer than that), when I heard the sound of stilettos clicking rapidly toward me and soon spotted Jasmine running toward me, an almost-imperceptible bead of perspiration resting on her delicate forehead.
She stopped for a moment after reaching me to catch her breath, then finally asked me, “So, would you care to go grab a bite to eat?” “Eat?” I asked. “But what about all those bees who were chasing us?”
“Oh. Right. Do not bee worried. I was able to convince all of them to enjoy a nice, long nap, in a manner of speaking.” she said with an unmistakable tone of pride in her voice. “They will no longer threaten us.” “That’s a relief,” I said, feeling relieved.
“So?” Jasmine asked. “So what?” I asked. “Lunch?” “Lunch?” I asked. “Yes. Would you care to have lunch? There is a little place that is not far from here. I beelieve you would enjoy it.”
After beeing held captive for such a long time and beeing subjected
to the horrors I’ve already described, and after just barely escaping with my life -and that briefcase - I couldn’t beelieve Jasmine was beeing so incredibly nonchalant about the whole thing and that the only thing she could think of was to have lunch. Still, I was hungry. “Sure. Let’s have lunch,” I said. So we did that.
The small café Jasmine was talking about was actually about a three-mile hike through a lot of deserty landscape. It was a small place that only had about two tables and four chairs in it. When we arrived, one of the tables was taken, so we took the other one. Right after we sat down, a small drone came up to us, handed us each a menu, then said something I couldn’t understand. Jasmine smiled at him and said something back, which I also couldn’t understand. (I’ve decided since then that they were speaking a language I didn’t understand. I’m not sure, but I think it was Berber like the carpets. I really should learn that language someday. It’s very beeautiful, ya’ know.)
“I have taken the liberty of ordering for us,” Jasmine said, as she took the menu out of my wings and stacked it with hers on the corner of the small table.
While we were waiting for our order to arrive, Jasmine leaned across the table toward me, speaking to me in a low, sultry whisper.
17. “What? I didn’t catch that,” I said to Jasmine. “I said, we have not much time. We must... .”
Beefore she could finish her thought, Jasmine was interrupted by our server bringing our lunch order: two plates full of Honeybaked Garbanzo beens with a side of Spicy Nectar Sauce. We ate in silence until we had eaten everything, then Jasmine dabbed her cheek with her napkin and said, “What I was saying was: we must depart now without further delay. The Professor is waiting.” “The Professor?” I asked. “Yes. He is our contact. You are to accompany him to a safehive at an undisclosed location, along with this.” She rose to her delicate feet to stand gracefully on her stilettos and lifted the briefcase, then beegan moving toward the exit.
I followed Jasmine’s lead, I stood up and beegan walking out of the café. I was almost out of the door when I heard a voice beehind me.
“So, you’ll bee paying for that lunch you just ate, right? I mean, you weren’t planning to leave without paying, right? You know that Dining and Dashing is illegal here, right?” It was our server.
“Oh, right. Sorry,” I said, then I asked, “Will you take a card?” “Certainly, sir,” he said, gave me a dirty look and snatched the Hivebank Triple Rewards Credit Card I had secretly hidden in my shoe, and walked off. After about a half an hour or so, he finally came back with what I’ve since learned is a tax-deductible receipt. (Of course, it was only later that I realised he hadn’t given me back my card, so now I’m having to deal with a bunch Identity Theft issues, which I don’t appreciate at all. I should probably cancel that or something.)
After paying for lunch. I followed Jasmine out of the café. I noticed
she had the briefcase clutched tightly under her wing and was surveying the area with a look of concern on her exquisitely refined face as we stepped out into warmth of the glaringly tepid sunlight.
I squinted against the brightness outside and suddenly realised that, standing beetween the Sun and me, was the looming shape of a very tall, slender bee I’d never seen beefore. I could see he was wearing a battered, festively beige corduroy vest, had patches sewn on the elbows of his wings, and sported a headful of slightly thinning, greying fuzz.
“So this is the bee?” I heard him say. “Yes, Professor,” Jasmine said, gesturing with her delicately contoured wing toward me. “Allow me to introduce Georgie A. Bee.” Then she turned to me and nodded toward the stranger. “Georgie Bee, this is the Professor.”
“Good afternoon,” I heard him say beefore I could say anything. “I am Professor Bilderschlutten.” “Yes,” Jasmine told me. “This is our contact, the Professor.” “Hello,” I said to the Professor. “Bildenschloffer?” “Bilderschlutten,” he said. “Right. Professor Bildfordlussen. Your name sounds vaguely familiar to me.” “BILDERSCHLUTTEN,” he said overly loudly, sounding weirdly annoyed. “PROFESSOR GREGORIO RAWLINGSFORD BILDERSCHLUTTEN the THIRD. And my name most certainly should sound familiar to you, since it was the very name you inadvisedly revealed in your quirky, but irresistibly appealing, writings.” “It was?” I had to ask. I honestly couldn’t remember. “Was it not you who audaciously revealed my identity in that treacherously subversive, yet highly entertaining, novel you wrote? And was it not you who, in doing so in such an enjoyable and articulate fashion, focused the attention of the entire world on me and which has led to the predicament in which we now find ourselves?” “Was it?” I asked. “Indeed it was,” he said. “And it is beecause of your irresponsible, but unusually engaging writings, that we must now extricate ourselves from this significantly complicated circumstance in which
we find ourselves and which could very easily threaten the future of life on this planet as we know it, probably. In your unbridled zeal to secure the coveted and, I think, a well-deserved-but-not-yetawarded Beetlizer Prize for your exquisitely-written, but clearly misguided literary undertaking, you may have spelled doom for us all, probably.” I was starting to get the feeling he didn’t like me all that much.
“And now, here you are again, complicating my life,” he said. “I had vastly superior, alternative plans for this day. Promises were made. Gifts were given, and yet, I find myself here, with you.” After he said that, I was almost sure he didn’t like me.
“Look, Professor Bilden...” “BILDERSCHLUTTEN,” he yelled at me, but I kept talking anyway. “I guess I should bee sorry, but I didn’t mean to...” I started to say, but this time Jasmine interrupted me and gently placed her wing my shoulder as the Professor continued to glare at me. He seemed to bee shaking. I was going to tell him that maybee he should cut down on his Caffeinated Nectar Consumption or something, but I never got the chance to say that. “We are convinced he knew not what he was doing, Professor,” she said. “I have come to beelieve that his inadvertent exposure of the inner-workings of our Organisation has been nothing more than a sheer coincidence. Perhaps.”
Perhaps? I felt a pang of disappointment and started to feel nervous when I heard that Jasmine might still bee questioning my unquestionable innocence.
“But now,” she continued, “we must cease further persecution of this sweet, gentle, kind, loving, reasonably attractive, talented, brave, unassumingly stylish, noble and probably innocent bee, and turn our attention to the critical task that lies beefore us.” I beegan to feel relieved that she didn’t feel the need to keep giving me a dif-
ficult time of things at this point as she seemed to change the subject by lifting the briefcase she held for the Professor to see and said, “At all costs, we must protect this.” There was a brief moment of silence, then the Professor spoke.
“The Stick?” he nodded toward the briefcase, his tone suddenly taking on air of seriousness. “I understand, seriously,” he said. “The situation threatening us now is more urgent than I had been led to beelieve.” “It is, Professor, most certainly. That is why you must go. You must go now,” Jasmine told him, adding, “I will join you later at the safehive.”
“You’re not coming with us?” I asked, feeling nervous that she was leaving me in the wings of this bee who clearly had it in for me and who probably didn’t share in Jasmine’s observation that I was the sweet, gentle, kind, loving, reasonably attractive, talented, brave, unassumingly stylish, noble and probably innocent bee that she was appropriately telling him I was (and still am, by the way). “No. I cannot,” she said, quickly turning to me as the flowing, almost-semi-transparent fabric of her haik suddenly caught an unexpected puff of wind, causing it to flow around her like a gentle cloud that revealed only an agonisingly fleeting glimpse of her alluring form in silouhette against the hot, early afternoon sunlight. I beegan to sweat profusely. “I must remain here,” Jasmine continued, grasping the free-flowing material around her and regaining her modesty. With an urgent buzz, she said, “I must remain here and create a clever diversion to distract any who may still bee following us.”
As much as that seemed to make sense, I felt a pang of huge disappointment when I beegan to realise that Jasmine and I would not bee enjoying a pleasant game of “Count The Telephone Poles” together as we made our way to the safehive, after all.
Then Jasmine turned again to the Professor and relinquished the briefcase, gently and seductively placing into his wings. Her eyes, tantalisingly visible beehind her veil as if they were two, dark pools of infinite, irresistible mystery, looked deeply into the Professor’s face, conveying an unspoken understanding beetween them. “You know what must bee done, Professor,” is all she said.
“I do indeed,” he said gravely, taking the briefcase from her. “You need say nothing more. Bee safe. I will see you at the safehive.”
I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t say “we”...as in, “WE will see you at the safehive”. I was hoping he had just kind of forgotten about me, but I wasn’t totally sure about that. I was starting to get scared.
The Professor glanced at me with a look I can only describe as not overly-friendly expression on his face - kind of like the look ButterCup gives me when I accidentally forget to remember her birthday, which I’ve only done once, by the way - then he reached into his pocket of the vest he was wearing, and pulled out some sort of shiny, pointy-looking metal object. A sharp edge flashed in the sun. “You and I will bee taking a ride now, bee,” he said.
I felt my knees start to weaken as he approached me menacingly.
18. “You drive,” he said, handing me what looked to bee a set of keys to a red, 2002 Town and Country van. I’m gonna pause here and just tell you that I felt amazingly relieved that it appeared that I wasn’t gonna bee taken out and stung on some impossible-to-find back road somewhere, probably. Since I was driving, at least I would know where I was. And, quite frankly, it felt good to drive. I’d never done it beefore. “You will follow this road until we come to a rusted-out, abandoned four-slice toaster which lies at the crossroads which will lead us to the safehive,” the Professor said. “Now drive.” So I did that. It seemed as if the Professor and I had been driving for days beefore we finally came to the toaster in the road. Finally, and by the time I’d finished singing, “99 Pounds of Honey on the Wall” about three or four times (the Professor refused to join in, by the way), we came to a road where a sign stood that said, “Turn Here”. “Turn here,” he told me. “This is the road that will take us to the safehive. In approximately 0.0795528 kilometre, turn left, then another left, then a right, then two lefts, one more right, then straight ahead. You will see a small bridge. Cross that. Shortly after the bridge, there will bee a fork in the road. Take the right fork and follow that road until we get to the entrance of what looks like a small, deserted Petrol Station and Snack Bar. Park in the parking lot. At that point, we will walk to safehive. We should bee there in about ten minutes.” “A left, then a right?” I was confused. “No... a left, then another LEFT, THEN a right, then two more lefts, a right, then straight ahead,” the Professor said, sounding aggravated. “Got it,” I said, not willing to admit that I didn’t get it.
After about another two hours of driving during which the Professor screamed at me several times that I’d “missed the turn” and to “go back”, we finally reached the deserted Petrol Station and Snack Bar. I parked the Town and Country van and we got out. “Follow me,” he said, carefully grabbing the briefcase in his wing. He led me to what seemed to bee nothing more than an old hubcap from a 1963 Bee M. W. propped up against some rocks. “This is it,” he said, pointing to the hubcap. “A hubcap? We’re staying inside an old hubcap?” I asked. “No,” said the Professor. “This is the entrance to the underground facility in which you will bee held until transport back to your home is arranged and we will finally bee rid of you.” I shrugged off the Professor’s not-nice statement. I figured he was probably just grouchy after such a long journey. The Professor led me underneath the hubcap and into what appeared to bee a small lift. He pressed his wingtip onto a blank-looking panel, and it suddenly sprang to life with a bunch of blinking, coloured lights. Then I heard a voice. “Identified.Welcome, Professor,” it said. “Please keep your legs, wings and antennae inside the compartment while in motion.” Immediately, I could feel the lift descending and soon we were thrown into darkness. Down and down we went, until the lift rattled and squeaked to an abrupt stop. “The Often-Reliable Lift Corporation - where our slogan is, ‘Call Us If You Ever Need a Lift’ - would like to thank you for travelling with us today. We hope you have enjoyed your ride. Please bee sure to collect your valuables beefore exiting,” the voice spoke again. “This way,” the Professor told me. We walked through a maze of dimly-lit corridors until we reached a series of connected, nicely-furnished rooms: a living room, a bedroom with a Queen Bee-sized canopy bed and Deluxe Massaging Mattress which I found out later was made out of extra-plush, selfcleaning sponges, a well-equipped game room, an office, a bath-
room with Warming Tub, an indoor 5-D theatre and Large-Screen T - with swivel-back, plush rocking chairs that had these really cool adjustable cup holders, a bowling alley, a Meditation Room, a Communications and Holographic Videoconferencing Room (I never got a chance to use that), a complete gym (I didn’t use that, either), and a kitchenette with a fully-stocked min-fridge and mini-bar. I felt right at home, mostly. “You will bee safe here,” the Professor said as he stood in the doorway. “It will not bee long beefore someone comes to transport you away from here, probably, back to where you beelong, hopefully never to return to his place. I am leaving.” “You’re not gonna keep me company while I wait?” I asked. “I cannot. I must convey this,” and he patted the briefcase he was holding, “to a safe location. I cannot assure its safety here.” “But...” I started to say, but he had already turned around and slammed the door beehind him. Beefore he left, I heard a series of elaborate locking mechanisms snap shut. When I went to try to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. I was almost certain that I’d been locked in. 19. It seemed as years had passed beefore I heard the locking mechanisms snap out and saw the door swing open. There stood Jasmine. “I hope,” she said in her husky, breathy buzz, “I have not kept you waiting too long. I just passed the Professor on my way in, so I assume you have had time to enjoy the comforts of the facilities we have provided for your comfort and safety.” “It’s quite nice,” I said. “I’m particularly looking forward to using that Communications and Holographic Videoconferencing Room so I can get in touch with everybody back home and let them know I’m okay.”
“I’m afraid that will not bee possible. You must leave immediately. You are to bee taken from this place. You are to bee accompanied by two of our Trusted Agents to a bus that is awaiting you. From there, a helicopter will take you to the Agency Airfield, where a plane remains on standby to return you to your home,” she said. “The Agents will remain with you until you have been securely belted into the aircraft, with your seatback and tray table secured in the upright and locked position.” “I see,” I said. “No, you do not see,” Jasmine said. “Beefore you leave here, you must first bee blind-folded. We cannot allow you to know the whereabouts of this facility - or where you have been held these many, long, tedious weeks.” “Blindfolded?” I asked. “Yes,” Jasmine said. “But beefore then, and beefore you depart, I must ask you one, final question to satisfy my curiosity for the truth: how did you manage to acquire the information you did regarding our operations, which you revealed in your novel, available as an ebook from fine online retailers everywhere?” “Honestly,” I said, “I don’t know anything.” Suddenly, and beefore I realised I would never again hear Jasmine’s soothingly exotic voice, everything went dark. I felt a blindfold beeing tied way too tightly over my compound eyes, then felt each of my wings beeing grabbed tightly as the two, unseen Agents beegan escorting me - not all that gently, I hafta say - out of the safehive and, finally, home.
And that’s what happened.
POSTSCRIPT As I was flying back home, strapped so tightly in my seat that my stinger started to get a really bad cramp, I felt tired. After my long ordeal, I was excited to get back to my boot box and let everybody know that I was okay. I also needed a bath and a fresh pair of shoes (the ones I had on were all full of sand). Watching the bushes and tall grasses outside the airplane window whizz by as we neared my destination, home, where I was sure my music was playing and my love was lying, waiting silently for me, probably, I wondered if I could get a pair of those really cool, plastic souvenir Pilots Wings after we landed, and if the Flight Attendant would finally give me back that bottle of water she took away from me at the beeginning of the flight. (She kept saying something about “possible explosives”, though I’ve never heard of exploding water, have you?) I really needed something to sip on. Ignoring my mouthpart-numbing thirst, I started thinking about what I’d just been through. I asked myself where I had just been and why. I thought of the rude questions everybody kept asking me for some reason that I couldn’t answer and felt lucky that I had been able to escape with Jasmine’s help. I fondly remembered the brief, precious hours she and I had spent together, wondering where she might bee, what she might bee doing now, and who she might bee seeing.
Was she looking at the same Moon I was? Or was it cloudy where she was?
I wondered, also as well, did the Professor arrive safely at his secure destination with the briefcase and would I ever bee able to find such a highly attractive and functional briefcase like that for myself? Nervously I thought, “What if Krunch McKowsky manages to escape from that locked Interrogation Room and decides to come after me again?” And, I wondered, why wasn’t my mail beeing forwarded to me while I was gone? It turns out, I would never know.
The End
“The Bee Who Knew Too Much” ©copyright 2016 by R. Morriss/The Bee Society Press All Global Rights Reserved.
Contact the author:
email: georgie@beesociety.com
website: http//www.beesociety.com