Cellphones? Global Warming? A plague-like bee virus? Scientists can’t figure out why all the world’s bees are disappearing. Bee-loving nerds across the globe continue to search for a reason why bee populations have dropped in huge numbers over only the past couple of years. I know why, of course — the answer’s deceivingly simple. I killed all those bees with my bare hands.
Yeah, that’s right. Over the last two years I’ve killed thousands of bees, and I’m not the least bit sorry. They had it coming, and I think they know it. The bees caused me plenty of pain over the years, and not one bee ever apologized or showed the least bit of remorse — I’m just playing by their rules. No restraint, no regret.
I’ll never forget the Gilmours’ “We’re Back From New Zealand” party in the summer after fifth grade. The Gilmours hosted an outdoor barbecue on their huge property for about 100 people. It was a perfect summer day. My brother Nate and I joyously played yard games with the dozens of other kids as my parents wined and dined with the grown-ups. It was a blast — at least, until my bro and I decided to play some Frisbee.
Nate and I started tossing the disc only a few feet apart. As our throwing confidence grew, however, so did the space between us. I kept backing farther and farther away, and soon I spotted a few large white boxes surrounded by black dots dancing in the air.
I knew those boxes were man-made beehives, and having never seen one before, my curiosity increased. I inched a little closer to the hives, then closer still. I had no intention to harm, only to observe. I thought it was safe, too. I was at least 15 feet away from the boxes when I felt the first sting.
The sharp, concentrated pain on my neck, coupled with my brother’s cries of “Don’t be an idiot!” told me it was time go. I ran from the bee boxes, but the stings kept coming. I ran even farther, but no matter how far I ran, the bees continued to swarm. After the sting count reached a baker’s dozen, I alerted the grownups with a high-pitched cry for help.
Screaming, flailing my arms and running in zigzags, I looked like a Satan-possessed frat boy after a keg stand. Upon hearing my cries of bee-sting woe, my mom frantically ran to me, ripped my shirt off and whipped me with it. She whipped me all over, trying to get rid of the bees.
The music stopped. Everyone in the party stared. For a moment all one could hear were my wails of pain, dissonantly mixed with the sounds of a T-shirt striking the pale, bare skin of an innocent youth.
After a couple of minutes the bees stopped their attack, but the damage had been done. I spent the rest of the party cowering on the patio, in shock from the pain of 20 stings and the embarrassment of knowing a crowd just watched my mother whip me with my own T-shirt.
The previous tale is only one of many “Lots-of-bees-sting-Zack” stories. Over the years, such events fueled a fire within my soul, a bee-hating fire. This fire eventually consumed my thoughts and dreams; I could no longer focus on homework, sleep became difficult and I had trouble performing romantic acts. All I could think about was how much I hated the bees.
So one summer day I went out and killed every bee I saw. It was only three bees, but I nevertheless got a taste of the sweet honey flavor of revenge. Killer bees, I thought to myself: Meet Killer Z.
For weeks at a time I flew off to some part of the world and destroyed bees with my bare hands. Sometimes I bit them to death, as well. Mostly, however, I would slap them into a wall or into my other hand. After I defeated a hive, I would stand over the dead and dying bees and make them watch me drink their honey. Then I would laugh. Hah, oh, how I would laugh.
Yeah, I got stung a few times, but did Bruce Willis make it out of Die Hard scratch-free? Hell no. A little swelling runs with the job of bee killing, and I like it when they put up a fight.
Unfortunately, the scientists discovered the missing bees before I finished my task, and killing bees is more difficult now without attracting attention. Who knows, I may cut my mission a little short and stop the bee hunt – I think they got the message. But I swear, if I ever hear of a bee stinging any of my friends even once, the Killer Z’s coming back to send those flying terrorists into extinction.
Zack Poitras, a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].