“Mr. Prime Minister, I have disturbing reports from the Pickering Nuclear Plant. It’s bees, sir.”
“Dear God! You mean . . .”
“Yes, sir. Canadianized bees. They’re so huge they only drink maple sap, boring holes with their auger-like stingers.”
“Is there any good news?”
“They’re quite polite—they always ask before stinging someone. Almost no one says yes.”
“Should we warn the Americans?”
“The bees don’t really like heat. Some go to Florida for the winter, but most are heading north.”
* * *
Somewhere in Russia
“Sir, I’ve detected a mass of objects coming over the North Pole.”
“Is it the Americans?”
For all my Friday Fictioneer friends who may not have read my previous post, I’m going out of town for a couple days, but I’ll still try to read all your stories at some point.
Copyright Rich Voza
The day started with such potential. I was flying to meet a gorgeous Russian woman. We were in love.
Now, twelve hours later, I’m tied up in an abandoned paint factory while “Veronika” and her thugs figure out how to get five million dollars for me.
Apparently, it’s bad to tell strangers on the Internet that you’re a millionaire.
Still . . . the gentle way she tied the ropes; the way she didn’t taser me like she threatened to. I think there’s a spark there.
I’m just going to sit here and work on my winning smile until she comes back in.