Attack of the Heffalump Bees, Part 5 of 6

This is Part 5 of 6. If you have not done so yet, please read the first parts of this story (see my blog) before proceeding. This story is a work of fiction. If you like bad B movies, this is the next best thing. I'll return with my customary non-fiction blog posts as soon as this beast has been slain.

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“You found food!” I said. But in truth, my hunger for food was forgotten each time I looked at Christela. She had taken off her dress and was facing me in the back office of the church. I tried not to stare, but she knew I was interested. And she seemed to approve.

I had really gotten to like this girl for her personality, mind, musical talent, and humor. I liked her for who she was. It was simply a bonus that she had the most beautiful face and body I could have imagined. The latter was hard to miss now, considering that she was wearing only a bra and panties. But I put that hunger aside also.

“Do you eat peanuts?” she asked me again.

“Sure,” said I. “I love peanuts.”

“Good. Then we will survive,” Miss Nicaragua replied with some relief. “I was worried you might be allergic, as some people are. There is a case of roasted peanuts in the office, a big box containing several of these jars. The priest must have shopped at Costco to nourish his nutty obsession.”

“That’s great,” I said. “So we have food, water, and a restroom. Too bad these bees can’t make honey, but we can survive in here for a few days!”

“And we have each other,” she said, putting down the box she held and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. We kissed for the first time. Her lips were soft and she was warm inside. Soon, I began wondering about the box.

“What else did you find in there?” I asked, not wanting to kill the flame of our embrace, but also trying to buy myself some time to think before things escalated any further.

“It is a drink called Kool-Aid,” answered the Nicaraguan pianist. “But it is not a drink so much as a powder that is mixed to make a drink.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with Kool-Aid,” said I, not too enthusiastic about mixing water with the powdery junk that probably contained sugar, artificial color, artificial flavoring, and preservatives. “Unfortunately, it’s not very nutritious.”

“Perhaps it will make the peanuts taste better,” said Christela.

I had visions in my mind of sugary drinks colored bright red. “What color of Kool-Aid is it?” I wondered.

“Green. It says green.”

“What? There is no such thing as green Kool-Aid. I’ve never heard of that,” said I.

“Perhaps it tastes of apples or green grapes,” she suggested. “Come, let’s try some. I’ve never had Kool-Aid before.”

“You’re not missing much,” I responded. But within a few minutes, we were seated again, eating peanuts and drinking green Kool-Aid from wine glasses.

“They have wine also,” said Christela.

“They have wine in the clergy office?” I asked. “Then why are we drinking green Kool-Aid?”

“Because I had to try it once,” she said. “But it is disgusting. I do not very much like this Kool-Aid.”

Soon, I had retrieved and opened the bottle of wine from the office. Was this the kind of wine they used in the church service? It was a red wine and tasted rather sweet. I read the label.

“Wow. This is Kosher wine,” I reported.

“This priest is full of surprises,” Christela said. “There’s a bucket and a mop and an illustrated book about birds. And peanuts. And Kool-Aid. And Kosher wine.”

“It’s good that neither of us is allergic to peanuts,” she continued. “Those abejas are still buzzing around the church like it has become their headquarters.”

After two glasses, I was feeling light-headed. The world wasn’t spinning yet, but I started to imagine that my hands and fingers were turning slightly green. Christela also looked tired. We put away the wine and peanuts, getting ready for bed.

And now my self-control would be tested, along with my self-imposed vow against pre-marital relations.

We both agreed it made the most sense to sleep in the small room beneath the church organ (we called the organ room). We had already moved aside the bench to give us both space to lie down with the door closed. It was a very small space for just the two of us, but if the Heffalump bees came back, it was the safest place to hide. They still did not know about the secret place below the organ.

Christela and I laid down together. We had to stay close because the church organ had multiple foot pedals, a whole row of them, that were quite uncomfortable when they gouged into one’s spine. So instead, I pushed the other way, snuggling up to this gorgeous young woman who had been a beauty contestant in her home country and come here to develop her prodigious skills as a concert pianist. It was then I realized that she was no longer wearing anything at all. In the near darkness, her eyes glinted green for a moment, but I dismissed this as some random reflection.

And then the damsel attacked me. When the attack came, it was so vicious that I thought at first she must be “one of them.” She was not, for her intentions were amorous. And what I had mistaken for viciousness was the unbridled passion of a woman who had somehow been able to remove her last scraps of clothing in that confined space without me knowing it. I was very much willing to be the subject of her amorous affections and to return them with equal strength. All notions of conserving my precious bodily fluids had vanished.

The spot below the organ became a special place for the subsequent days and nights. Up until that point in my young life, I had never experienced so much of a woman, which I realized was probably a direct result of my self-imposed vow against pre-marital relations. In light of the present opportunity, that vow was suspended, effective immediately and until further notice. Later, upon reflection, I realized that the horizons of my very square existence had just expanded greatly. I was no longer a square peg in a round hole. For the first time in my life, I felt like a round peg, and I even felt like smiling and laughing.

Beyond the physical intimacy, I really liked Christela. She was so much fun to be with. I loved her sense of humor. I felt that she was getting to like me also. As weird as it seemed, hiding out beneath a church organ and eating only peanuts in a church that was filled with vampirish Heffabees, lust melted into love. Christela and I came to be one in every possible way.

By the end of the fourth day, we were sorely expecting that the Heffabees’ threat would diminish along with the passing of the 5-day New Moon period. (I certainly did not want to think of other periods.) But something strange was happening: the Heffalump bees had turned the church into their sanctuary. They had covered all of the windows with paper to block out sunlight and moonlight. Some were hibernating with their stinger-suckers stuck into the wooden church pews.

That was when we realized they did not intend to change back into human form. They would stay as Heffabees, shielding themselves from the sunlight and moonlight, and would hide out here for three more weeks until the next New Moon unleashed them on an unsuspecting world. But they would have to hibernate during the day at a low ebb.

We had to break out while they were resting. It was the only way, as much as I enjoyed the intimate company of Miss Nicaragua. And so, we conceived of a plan to hit them in the morning.

When daylight came next, I climbed up through the pipe organ. The central pipe was widest and I hoisted myself up on the outside of it, emerging atop the huge cross above the altar in the church. I could see Heffabees buzzing about, but they were lower down. And most were dozing off; they had not noticed me. I tapped the pipe three times so that Christela would know I was in position.

And then everything around me pulsed in a reverberating explosion of music as Christela began playing the organ at maximum volume. Amid the chaos, one question filled my mind: How could a talented concert pianist who was fluent with Liszt be playing something so pedestrian as Chopsticks on the organ? A pipe organ is no piano. Chopsticks must be all she could play on that larger and different contraption. Or was it a joke on her part?

Capitalizing on the chaos, I jumped with my arms outstretched and reached the cable that held the dangling microphone over the piano. Grabbing onto it, I swung back and forth, screaming like Tarzan. One Heffabee was right near me, but as it buzzed for my leg, I avoided the sucker stinger and kicked it in the side of the head. It deflated like a balloon and spun around the room making a loud farting noise!

“My kingdom for a handful of darts,” thought I. Of course, there were no darts to be had near the church ceiling. Every monster has its Achilles heel, but I sensed that deflating each Heffabee with a sharp object still might not be it.

All this noise got the Heffabees’ attention and they were swarming for me, but that was the whole point. From the church organ, Chopsticks turned into a new tune and those pipes began belting out the theme music for Indiana Jones. Just the motivation I needed! If only I had a cool hat.

On my third pass on the swinging cable, I came close enough to one of the upper windows to release my grip and land my feet on its frame. Just then, the cable I had been swinging on snapped, and my jump landed me on the papered window itself. For an instant, I was splayed out and stuck to this window by force. If someone had taken a Sharpie and outlined my form, it would have looked like the marking of a murder scene. And then I began to slip down the window. With my fingers shaped like claws, I scratched downwards at the paper that covered it.

They were buzzing right at my heels.

This was Part 5 of 6. Please tune in again soon for another riveting installment.

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The rights to this work are held by the author, who created the montage image with public domain and/or properly licensed stock images. The Heffalump bee image was adapted from an old Winnie the Pooh video, the rights to which are held by Disney. If you're not familiar with the Dark and Stormy Night branch of fine literature (let me spread that sarcasm a little thicker), please consult this page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_was_a_dark_and_stormy_night . This is, of course, my own take on it and not strictly Purple Prose.