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Bee, My Queen (insecto-ero-apocalypse fiction)

Posted: Tue, December 18, 2012 | By: Hank Pellissier



When I was young, I wasn’t interested in girls.  I was obsessed with bug. Insects.  I spent long hours mounting them in my collection.

I received a Ph.D in Entomology. I lectured in Connecticut. My social life remained in what you’d call the larval stage.

My specialty became Hymnoptera Africanus, also known as “Killer Bee.”  A hive of these monsters smuggled themselves into Brazil in 1981. They attended Mardi Gras in Rio in 1994, driving revelers into the sea. In 2002 they immigrated, illegally, across the Rio Grande. Pentagon defenses near St. Louis were punctured in 2017. By the year 2022, half the landmass of the USA was Bee-controlled.

The CIA drafted me in spring that year. They needed a spy, someone wise in the ways of bees. They made me watch atrocity footage - corpses bloated with bee poison floating down the Mississippi.  They let bees sting me in the face, and nipples. I screamed, “Kill!  Kill!  Of course!  I’ll kill the Killer Bees!”

They tossed me into a shrinking machine, reducing me to the size of a dime. They gave me a bee costume to wear. They gave me a tiny can of Raid; they said, “you must assassinate their Queen.”

So I headed west, towards Mount Rushmore.  That symbol of American pride.  Now known as Buzzantium. Ruled by the albino Queen Thorax, who lives in a palatial hive in the left nostril of Jefferson’s nose.

In Vermont I was almost snagged by a toad. A lark chased me across Indiana. Spiders in Wisconsin forced me to employ half my can of Raid.

Death of my friend Sargeant Venom
Death of my friend Sargeant Venom

There were, however, quiet moments. Sleeping in a perfumed lily, gliding in a meadow breeze - precious times when I almost forgot that I was just a human.

When I reached Minnesota I made a beeline towards a small platoon of beescouts. They were horrified by the aberration of my face. A battle wound, I said. I needed medical attention. Sargent Venom stepped forward to be my guide to the Imperial Palace.

Venom and I became jolly companions. We snorted pollen together, we ambushed butterflies. Our friendship ended early though; one morning I was licking moisture off a fresh bear turd, when a praying mantis grabbed me, from behind. I would have been torn to shreds if Sargent Venom hadn’t plunged his lance into the enemy’s brain.

With a dying squeak, my kamikaze pal pointed me towards Buzzantium. Arriving at dusk, I checked into the Emergency Ward, located in Lincoln’s mouth.  The care was excellent - clean wax, nutritious honey.  My doctor had a pouty proboscis, flirty antennae. Too bad I’m supposed to exterminate these bugs, I thought. Some of them are pretty damn cute…

That night I snuck out of the hospital. I soared past Roosevelt’s mustache; I flew past Washington’s wig.  I entered the huge septum of our third President. 

I buzzed through catacombs and labyrinths. I entered a radiant chamber. Whirling above me, I saw the corpulent Queen. Lined up behind her abdomen there was a train of eager drones. The horny princes mounted her, one by one they pumped away, moaning, they ejaculated, but then… their genitals were trapped, with barbs, inside the Queen’s vagina!

Impatiently, she scraped them loose, they fell castrated, dying on the chamber floor. The next male ascended, nonetheless, ready to die for a moment of bliss. Thirty-seven princes came, and went…

I stepped out of the shadows, fingering the Raid. The Queen’s 6,000 eyes gazed at me. I flew towards her. I crawled on her back - my hand was on the trigger… I could save the human race in half a second.

What’s this, though? My hips started moving back and forth, thrusting!  What am I doing? My stiff human member entered the Queen. Hey, I decided, I’ll have some fun first…

“it was the best… her taste as sweet as honeysuckle’

Oh, oh… it was… the best…

Her taste as sweet as honeysuckle… Her sweat like dew on a poppy petal… I dreamed of children striped like tigers…

My reverie ended with a sharp kick. I crashed to the ground, clutching my crotch. Was it gone? Am I dead?

No!  No!  I’m alive!  Lucky for me, my penis is incredibly small, for a drone. The queen stared, perplexed. No lover had ever survived.

I knelt before her.  “Long Live the Queen!” I shouted.

Call me Turncoat.  Benedict Arnold. I threw away the can of Raid. I told her everything!  I even led an air attack back to CIA headquarters to annihilate my former employers.

I live the good life now.  When I’m not busy depositing seed inside her Majesty, I’m busy sketching battle plans with my six arms and legs.

Next spring we will invade the primate’s central hive, we’ll wedge our wax inside the White House, we’ll bury our shafts in the fluttering Senate.  We’ll exterminate the humanoids, we’ll raise our children in their skulls. From sea to shining sea we will rule the new Utopia, it will be a continent of flowers, dotted with the gleaming walls of our golden cities.



Comments:

Lovely - here’s the beauty of otherness we need !

By René Milan on Dec 18, 2012 at 11:50pm


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