“Bees ahead,” the roadside digital sign intoned, “roll up your windows.”

Having no windows - technically no top at all - in my International Scout II, I decided instead to close my eyes really tightly and then floor the gas. Before long, the street scoop atop my 6-71 blower was force feeding honeybees into the hungry three-lobe rotors, causing momentary detonation. It was worth it, though, as the Scout emerged on the other side of the swarm, emitting chunks of mulched up bee from the side exit exhaust.

The news was there. They wanted to know how I could deal with one of mankind’s most ancient enemies so gallantly, easily, trivially. I told them it was all due to modern electronic fuel injection and the majestic power of science. Someone, I still don’t know who, took my interview with the news and turned it into a YouTube techno remix focusing on chopping and screwing my autotuned voice as my bee-stained face flapped its gums in an almost-disembodied haze. It worked, I was famous. Beyond famous in that weird way that only 1960s pop stars and subway etiquette abusers in China are.

Before long, I had become “The Mulched Bee Guy,” touring the country and visiting high schoolers, teaching them about volumetric efficiency by chewing up entire hives full of bees with a desk-vise-mounted Eaton M90 and trying to liken it to their physics - or if they were religious schools, theory - classes.


At the end of one of my lectures, I think it was in Montana, but maybe South Dakota, the snow was falling outside the window. I caught a glimpse of a student’s reflection who had stayed behind to ask me more questions about science.

“Do you think,” they asked me, eyes wide with hope, “they will ever invent a transmission which can shift itself?”


“Absolutely not, Timmy,” I barked back. “Such speech is heresy.”