Beeneath the Stars
I crouched. Snap! A branch underfoot giving my position away. I looked into the house from my shadowed cell. I buzzed swiftly underneath the canopy of miscellaneous shrubbery. I paused. I smashed my way in.
Janet had changed her locks – hair and door holes. After the news had come out she was put into a protection programme. I remember. People were jeering, people were jeering. The chants echoed in my ears night and day.
Billboards outside the house. ‘DIE BEEDOPHILE SMACK HEAD’. ‘BUZZING THAT YOU FUCK BEES YOU SHOULD BE INSECTIONED’. ‘NICE PUN BILLY’.
And I’d found myself having to stick around for a while, until I’d found a practical way to transport fifty thousand bees across Manhattan. I’d tried minicabs, buses, trains, horses: nothing. So we set up camp in the back garden with the hope that Janet wouldn’t see us.
“Jerry, if you must stick around, could you please at least move that thing out of my sight?”
The bees buzzed with indignation. They’d had spats with Janet in the past, her shouting “home wrecker! Husband thief! Murderer!” all the time being stung. She’d had to buy her own bee suit. An ironic costume for her hairless body.
So for now we were in a stalemate. As I stood in the kitchen, searching for sweet pollen to bring back to the hive, I took a sip from my gilded hip flask and savoured the bittersweet homemade mead.