Bee Wars

It all began with that stupid bee.  And the donuts.

I was carrying two dozen Krispy Kreme donuts into work when I felt something tapping me on the head.  I glanced to my right and found myself eye to eye with the biggest bee I had ever seen.  

The guy had an attitude, too, most likely exacerbated by an endless string of 100 degree days.

I picked up speed and caught up with one of my colleagues, who was also heading into work.  “Christine, did you see that bee?  Is he near me?” 

Christine, who obviously does not know how to react in a killer bee crisis, said, “He’s chasing you!  He’s right behind you!  Run!” 

I sped up. 

“He’s right on your heels!," she said excitedly. "He must want the donuts!"

I considered the situation.  What’s more dangerous?  A killer bee on my tail or facing a group of hangry analysts waiting in a conference room for donuts.

I did what any responsible leader would do.  I threw the donuts on the ground and ran for my life.

Then I hear Christine scream, “He doesn’t want the donuts!” 
 
“HE WANTS YOU.”

I picked up speed to the point that had the right people been around, I could have ended up the oldest member of the U.S. Olympic sprinting team.   

I slammed into the door, scanned my ID, squeezed inside, managing to escape the bee by the skin of my teeth.  The door behind me slammed shut.

Leaving a very angry bee staring me down from the other side of the locked door. 

Since the bee had no employee ID, he was getting nowhere.  He bitterly buzzed away. 

Now, having outrun a killer bee in 102 degree heat did not leave me unscathed.  Sweat ran down every inch of my body.  And apparently, into my shoes.

Christine rescued the donuts and the hungry analysts were fed.  My day returned to normal. Or so I thought.

It was after lunch when I noticed my feet.   My very stinky feet.  I could smell them from under my desk.  They were rank.

And they seemed to get be getting ranker by the minute.

I considered my options, which were limited.  I just had to make it through the rest of the day. I covered my feet with a blanket to minimize the smell.

Several hours later the smell was so bad I had to close my office door. I didn't word getting out about my hygiene issues.

I thought about that bee.  Sure I beat him to the door.  But what did that get me?  My feet smelled worse than a teenager's rollerblades after skating without socks in Florida.

Except then I realized that my feet were smelling less like feet and more like dumpster. 

Wait. One. Minute.

I did, in fact, have a mini dumpster beneath my desk.  That’s when I remembered that the cleaning staff empties office trash every other day.

And just how good that steamed cafeteria broccoli had looked the day before and how bad it tasted.  And how I threw it in my trash can.

Let’s just say it tasted way better than it smelled.

I took the trash can to the curb and by the next morning the smell was gone.

And as for that killer bee?   

The campus was too big for the both of us.  

Word is he headed east.  To Amazon.