Honey Coup

Rent collection day was a waking wet dream for Jared.  There was something erotic about controlling dangerous creatures, forcing them to do his will. To pay him for the privilege of having a home. 

Four years ago, he moved his wife Hilda, and himself, to the country and purchased land with several dilapidated wood dwellings. Now, he had plenty of occupants toiling for him. It was better than collecting rent at the twenty-room apartment complex he’d managed, only to be fired because that one bitch changed her mind about what she’d agreed to in lieu of rent. 

He shook off the memory. This was better. Even though Hilda constantly belittled him by saying things like, “Real tenants pay real money to real landlords.”

. His little slaves paid in food he converted to currency. It was good enough. But it wasn’t about the money. It was the power of control. He craved control. 

Standing in front of the mirror, he rubbed his hands together. and said, “It’s rent collection day!”

“Quit calling it that,” said Hilda as she stepped up to the sink beside him. “You’re an effin’ beekeeper,” she said around the toothbrush gripped in her mouth.

Jared gritted his teeth and slowly slipped on his newly washed t-shirt. He inhaled her sickly-sweet, fruity, fragrance. She’d been bathing in her perfume lately.

Hilda gestured with her toothbrush, spattering him with diluted spit. “And you’re only collecting honey today to avoid seeing my sister.”

“Stay away from me. I don’t want your smells contaminating me,” Jared said as he stepped away from the sink. “You used the fragrance-free detergent and softener when you washed my clothes, right?”

“Just like you asked me to.” Hilda spat in the sink. Then her eyes focused on him, and her face crinkled. “You used the unscented lotion and shampoo I left out for you, right? You didn’t use mine?”

Jared sneered. “I wouldn’t touch your stuff.”

Last time Jared collected the honey, he was stung multiple times. He blamed his wife's affinity for scents and was taking precautions this time. 

Hilda shut off the water. “You aren’t going to starve the bees again this winter are you?” She pulled her nightgown up over her head, and stood before him in nothing but sagging skin and underwear. “Replacing them was expensive.”

“I know what I’m doing. It was weak stock.”  Jared sucked in his stomach as he appraised himself in the mirror. He had aged better than her. Compared to her brassy, red- dyed hair, his salt and pepper locks were sophisticated. He squeezed out a generous dollop of unscented hair gel. His hair might be a little thinner than it was forty years ago, but his stomach was flattish, and his skin pulled tight over the defined muscles in his chest and arms. 

“At least I don’t have to worry about you sleeping with the bees.” Hilda held up her perfume bottle and doused herself with more of the sickening, sweet aroma “Well, I told them you’d try to make it over, so at least make an attempt to finish early.”

Jared coughed and shifted out of the way as the cloud of scent moved in his direction. They both knew he wouldn’t show up. 

*****

Dressed in his uniform of coveralls, gloves, hat with attached veil, and galoshes, Jared dismounted his open air, farm, utility terrain vehicle and checked his outfit before he approached the hives. In addition to avoiding his wife’s scent, he had added to his protective gear. The legs of his coveralls were tucked into his boots and wrapped with duct tape around the tops. Then, he stretched his gloves up over his sleeves and attached zip ties to hold them tight. He double-checked that the zipper of the jumpsuit was pulled snugly to the top, and there was no gap in the veil. He was secure.

A trail of puffy white clouds arched around him as he tested the smoker. Then he stood over the hive. Each hive consisted of several stacked boxes with frames filled with various stages of honey. Bees climbed in and out of the hive, and buzzed near his veil.

“I’m coming for you,” he said as he puffed the smoke into the cracks of the box. “Just try to call for help now.”

The smoke was mind manipulation. It didn't calm or slow the creatures as some thought. It masked the pheromone smell the bees released when they were in danger. One could scream, but none of the bees would hear. 

It effectively silenced them, like giving a woman GHB, his preferred date rape drug. As he stoked the smoker, he daydreamed about smoke working on the snooty, curvy receptionist at the bank he cleaned. A little fog in her coffee and she’d be aware, but she wouldn’t be able to scream. Just like this bee. 

He picked up a docile bee off the frame and crushed it in his hand. Then he let the tiny lifeless body fall to the earth. 

He set the first box filled with frames on the ground and stared at them. Hundreds of bees spent their entire lives making the honey, and it was his for the taking. Bees crawled over the box and his gloved hands. They flitted near his head.  There were thousands of armed and dangerous creatures surrounding him, but he could smash their hard work on the ground, or he could extract the honey and make money. It was his choice. He had all the power. He could kill them all right now if he wanted to.

Pulling his frame tool from his pocket, he pried out the first frame. To block the rising, irritating drone of buzzing, he daydreamed about the receptionist.

“Pay up, my tenants,” he said.

Bees threw themselves at his veil, and along the arms of his jumpsuit. He felt the tickle along his neck just in time to tense, and wonder if he missed a rip in his veil, before the barbed daggers tore into his skin. 

With each bee sting, Jared regretted watching a training video of the mechanics.  Bees’ stingers had two wicked lances with backwards barbs. He imagined the sickening crunch as the barbs ripped through tissue, each piston movement forcing the stinger deeper, widening the wound like a grisly drill as it created a deep canal for the venom. 

Jared screamed and slapped his neck but then froze. For a moment, he thought the smoker smelled like bananas.  

He sniffed the air through his veil, keeping his hand on his throbbing neck. The bee had ripped her stomach and abdomen off and was dying inside his suit somewhere, but the stinger was still humping poison into his skin like a horny dog. And he had to take it because removing his suit to get at it would only allow more invaders to penetrate his inner sanctum.

“The bees’ drone gained volume.  He tried to sniff his sleeve, but each time he drew his nose closer to his arm, a bee slammed into the netting around his face. He only smelled smoke. He must have imagined the banana, but his heart raced, and he could feel a clammy wetness forming down his back. The pheromone drowned out by the smoker, the signal the bees sent to warn the others of danger, smelled like bananas. If he smelled it, the bees did too.

Jared angrily pulled the box over to the flatbed of his UTV and let it fall. The heavy wood sounded a muted thud against the plastic. Too late, he realized he forgot to blow off the bees first. Hundreds now lay dead and dying beneath the weight of the box. He also hadn’t finished checking the frames to see if they were ready to harvest. It didn’t matter. He’d take them all. Sure, some bees might starve during the winter, but there were thousands of them.

Randomly, he grabbed boxes full of frames from the hives and added them to the back of his vehicle, crushing more and more bees. He placed the tops back on the hives.

His head ached from the droning of the bees. Were they always this loud?  He picked up the smoker to dose the bees swarming around his UTV when another bee stung him on the face. He threw the smoker down and swatted fruitlessly through the netting of the veil. The smoker’s flame. extinguished in the damp grass.

Furious, Jared hopped into his UTV, and an exposed screw on the seat frame caught on the back of his suit. The sound of ripping material was followed by a breeze caressing his back. He cursed. The suits were expensive. He pushed on the gas and sped toward home as fast as the small vehicle could take him. He needed to escape the bees’ incessant buzzing.

As the sound of the UTV motor drowned out the angry hums, he relaxed and leaned back into the seat. His back exploded in pain.

“Damn!” The vehicle sputtered to a stop as Jared jumped out and flailed, trying to reach his back to kill the bees he knew were already dead. He took a few steps away from the creatures still swarming around him and realized his mistake. By stopping, he allowed more of the colony to catch up.

Jumping back into the vehicle, he pressed his foot down but missed the gas pedal. As he glanced below to reposition his foot, he saw a small gap in the top of the taped galoshes. A line  of bees marched through the small hole.

He had to get home, but as he pushed on the gas pedal, a bee stung the tender skin between his toes. Another attacked the arch of his foot, and another pierced his Achilles heel, and then the pain dissolved into one throbbing, pulsating, rhythm. Gritting his teeth, he stepped harder on the gas, feeling one squish beneath his foot before the needle poke in his arch registered.

The bees had gone crazy. It was the only explanation. Usually, the insects were docile, helpful servants who mindlessly worked themselves to death collecting and making food for him.

His foot was numb, but he pressed on, his home was in sight now.  Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, he fantasized about jumping into the shower and letting cold water cascade down his throbbing body.

The UTV bounced, and he forced his eyes open, but it was still dark. It was hard to breathe. The bees had penetrated his veil, and his nostrils were obstructed by the creatures. When he exhaled, multiple stingers pierced his nasal membranes simultaneously.

Jared opened his mouth to yell, and a bee attacked his tongue. He ripped off his hat and veil. It served no purpose now. He tried to close his eyes, but it was too late. Angry bees pierced his left cornea.

Falling out of the vehicle, he ran blindly in the direction he last saw his house, he slapped his hat against his face, trying to force the bees away.  Every bee he knocked off with his hat or gloved hand was quickly replaced with others. He managed to swat enough away from his working eye for a quick glance at the house. Then, he directed his pain-maddened body toward his door. Luckily, he never locked it. The downstairs bathroom was just inside the door. Ten feet. Five feet. He was going to make it.

Gloved fingers gripped the doorknob, but he couldn’t turn the handle. The thick cotton didn’t give him any traction. He pulled at the glove, but the zip ties he tightened around his wrist held fast.

As he tugged, the plastic scraped against his hand, and wet, sticky blood trickled down his arms. Eventually he worked off his right glove and he reached for the handle covered in bees. Through the pain he turned the knob, but it didn’t move.

The door was locked. How was it locked?

The bees surrounded him. They were still attacking. Why? Bees didn’t do this without a reason.

Running toward the side of the house, he used his hand to guide him. Legs wobbled and his head felt as if it floated above him. He didn’t have much time left. Falling to his knees, he grappled with the faucet of his garden hose.

It took an eternity for the water to flow through the hose before it ejected in a pitiful bubbling waterfall at the end, but he doused his face in it, washing the bees from his eyes and cheeks and angering the ones trapped in his suit.

Water dripped through his hair, down his cheek, and past his nose, releasing of fresh torrent of the familiar sweet, fruity scent. 

In a moment of clarity, before he lost consciousness, Jared identified the scent. The one that permeated his clothes, and her supposedly unscented hair gel. Bananas.

*****

“Is that your husband?”

“Why yes, I think it is,” Hilda said as she pulled on her housecoat and stepped toward the window. She looked down from the second floor window at the figure below.

“Should we go help him now?” the deep voice next to her asked.

“Not yet, Tom.” Peering through the windowpane, she couldn’t see Jared clearly. “I don’t think he’s dead yet, do you?”

Her lover looked out the window next to her. “Maybe not just yet.”

“Why don’t you go turn off the water?” Hilda suggested. “The emergency cut-off valve is down in the basement. I wouldn’t want him washing off all the banana scent just yet.”

Tom laughed. “Just remind me to never cheat on you,” he said as he grabbed his pants.

“Well, it was your idea for me to overdose on the banana perfume for a few weeks, so he didn’t smell it in his lotion, shampoo, and clothes.” She sat back on the bed, lay on the rumpled sheets and stretched.

Tom leaned over and kissed her. “My crazy cat lady daughter gave me the idea. She is nose blind to her stinky cats.”

Hilda giggled. “I was afraid he was going to catch me dousing his sawdust for the smoker in banana oil this morning. I thought that was a nice finishing touch.”

Tom stood and helped her up. “Too bad we were upstairs fixing that leak in your bathroom and didn’t hear him screaming.”

“Such a tragedy,” Hilda said. “Let me fill the kettle before you turn off the water.”

Tom took her hand, and they walked down the stairs. “How long should we wait to find him, do you think?”

“Give the bees some time to tire of him,” Hilda said as she wrapped her arms around Tom’s neck and kissed him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the silhouette of a hand reach up briefly in the window behind Tom. The window screen ripped, and an angry black and yellow soldier pushed his way through.