Samson was deathly afraid of bees.
“Well, not DEATHLY afraid,” he’d say when pressed by friends who were phobia pressers. “Or I’d be dead by now!”
The phobia started the day when, as a child on a family picnic, a beehive had fallen on their picnic table, and his family had dashed to the car as the bees swarmed. He remembered looking back at the cloud of anger as they drove away…
… and so here, today, on a Starbuck’s patio in the Annex, reading a newspaper story about bee colony collapse disorder in North America… a bee buzzed around his head and alighted on his coffee cup.
Samson stifled three tiny screams heard only by a dog across the street. He also sharted, though he wasn’t aware of it at this moment.
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“Shoo, shoo,” he hissed, hands bent up to his face, waving at hummingbird speeds.
“I have found you,” thought the bee in its bee brain, for bees have short lives, but a sprawling bureaucracy, and this worker was here – FINALLY – to offer nectar as an apology and appease man-bee relations for the long-ago-ruined family picnic.
All Samson saw was a bee shitting in his coffee, before he cracked it dead with his newspaper, feeling instantly ashamed.
