Golden honey nectar shines in the afternoon rays. Overwhelmingly sweet, warm, and thick, it dribbles down the child’s chin. His stubby, meaty little hands generously, greedily reach for more. Buzzing, yelling, crying against this intruder to no avail, the black and yellow warriors prepare their weapons. At their Queen’s command, the soldiers zip into formation. Spiraling downward, the comrades pray for victory. Screeching screams erupt; insects fall. Twigs, leaves, and grass cling desperately to the boy’s sticky limbs as he rolls, writhing and burning on the forest floor. The limping survivors flee back to camp and slowly bolt their honeycomb door. Soft silence creeps through the oaks; only the boy’s pathetic breathing sounds. The glowing orange sphere starts to melt into it’s bed of clouds, waving goodbye to the day.