Bizzy Bee Bondage (ii)

Flip: those are some good ones. Look at the thickness of the caps. They must have excellent gills. No one would know these weren't bought at a store.
Miles: you need to stop using negatives like that, homeslice. It ain't a good look.
Flip: Fuck semantics right now, brodango. We got a lot of fungus to collect. And there are mad flying stingers around, so I wanna operate fast. With the quick-speed, let's hurry.
Miles: C'mon now, we got all the time in the world. These shrooms ain't gonna be disappearing on us. We got a whole 'nother three hours before the wetting.
Flip: Trust me. you ain't never gotten stung by a stinger. It would suck to have to suck poison outta you. I wouldn't be the one to do it.
Miles: Unless you got turned to stone. Then the stingers wouldn't be really important. No threat there, not if you was a stoned-dew face.
Flip: Shut yo' mouth. Let's go to the violets. There's some A. vaginata over there.

Violets had the best kind of aroma. The bumbles always stole their pollen. Mr. Snookles had been there when a one shot up his nose trying to extract crusty phlegm, a non-humorous affair for only him. Not since the horrifying experience of watching Abe Lanning's dreams eaten by spaghetti man had the dew face of Snookles absorbed such abject pain. His fate would be sealed the day his existence was re-mineralized. Of course, the convergence of a resolute bee and a couple of spore-hunters would be him, the grewd-dew faced Snookles. Craven, not. Oblivious, never. A reference point for continuous progress, measured and scrutinized; unequivocal.

Stingers were your friend. You were a bee. You could retract and poke, stab and sheath. Your chariot was your behind. Grunting and bickering beings of a "higher order" were your obstacle. Lack of cognition notwithstanding, you were a productive bee. Buzzing into the array of violets, there was a small, absolute instinct: pollen for the nest, or stinging puncture. You praised the sun, treated the vanished pecker as a marker in the road; the rendezvous of leisurely saunters of a sultry afternoon and a staunch Epicurean of June. You heard nothing, for you had no ears. You buzzed to a flower, muscles contracting all the while. A pluck later, peckerless peons suffered nose trauma. You returned to the nest, ready to start the rebuild, while some other forms of "higher beings" ran far back to their artificial home, away from the duty you had only just begun.