Bees.
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Bees.
There once was a man who tried to bring a suitcase full of bees onto a plane.
Naturally, before he even had a chance to board the aircraft, security stopped him dead in his tracks. That he made it as far as the X-rays without snag was, all things considered, quite the accomplishment. In that time, only one woman dared waylay him: a baggage agent for the airline in question.
"Sir, your carry-on is heavier than regulations allow."
Without complaint, the man opened his case and shoved bees in his pockets, bees in his shoes, bees under his hat.
"Still too heavy," the woman tutted, swatting one such bee away.
And so, hands viscous with honey, the man shoveled bees in his mouth, bees under his shirt, bees down his pants.
Satisfied, the woman tested his valise. Ringing-in underweight, she waved him through.
Placing his suitcase on a tray, the man obediently fed it down those rolly-thingies into the mouth of the beastly X-ray. The attendant on-duty gave pause. 'Well, I'll be.' A suitcase full of bees. He could see it clearly on the scan.
"Sir.. are those... bees?"
"Bees," the man grunted affirmatively.
The X-ray-man's wizard-friend, waving his beepy-little-wand-thingy, was equally, if not more, perplexed. "Bees?" he murmured wonderingly.
Clearly, this was a very crazed man.
It didn't take a genius to see there were bees coming out of his sleeves, bees nesting in his hair, bees, as it turned out, burrowed deep, deep inside his ass...
Anal probe concluded, Mr. X-Ray-man removed his latex gloves. "Bees?" he clarified, for the umpteenth time.
"Bees," the man agreed.
Unsure how to proceed, Mr. X-Ray-man consulted his supervisor, who checked the big rulebook squirrelled away in his desk for just such occasions.
Finding nothing that explicitly forbade bees, nosiree, he merely shrugged at his underling. "Well, alrighty then!"
On board, pre-takeoff, the flight attendant balked. "Sir," she said sternly.
The man looked up. Bees bearded his face. Bees mittened his hands. Bees wriggled out of his ears, dripping honey in his lap.
One bee even landed on the flight attendant's eyelash.
“You need to store your suitcase under your seat or in the compartment overhead."
"Bees," the man mumbled apologetically.
"Come out with your hands up!" the police chief screamed. Adorned in riot gear and gas masks, his men flooded the tarmac, guns leveled at the plane. Word of a dangerous neurotoxin had spread. One with a palliative, noxious effect. Needless to say, everyone was afraid.
"Bees," the plane responded in unison.
"You have one minute to comply!"
"Bees!" they said again.
A compelling argument, indeed. Tentatively, relievedly, the guards lay down their arms. Held aloft by a swarm of bees, the man floated out to greet them.
Bees crawled up his nose. Bees bore into his eyes. Bees burrowed under his skin. He wrapped his arms around his newest allegiant: trembling in his boots, the chief.
"Bees?" whispered the man. Intimate. Serene.
The chief's face broke into the widest-of smiles; tears of joy inundated his cheeks. Nodding enthusiastically, with renewed benediction, how could he not agree?
"Bees."
