Bees. Swarming buzzing bees. Tickling temperamental bees. Bees with
pointy painful stingers.

The boy poured honey down his back and shook his buttocks left to right.
The naked crazy boy. He passed by the beehives, jogging not running. Taking
his sweet innocent time, through the grass, toward the white perfumy clover
field. The bees rose in a fuzzy brown boil, filtered out their hive, cleaved
the air like an arrow aiming for honey-dripping bare-bummed Johnny. Little
Johnny boy smiled broad and white, his feet advancing toward the clover, tossing
his hips from side to side, breathless voice issuing forth, "Beeeeez.
Zzzzzzzhahahahahaaaaaaaa."

Little Johnny boy slipped a finger between his perspiring crack, taking
away honey as if from the stale edges of a white bread sandwich. Johnny loved
the bees, almost as much as the sticky sweet clinging of honey that formed and
hung like stalactites from his perineum, dripped dripping drops.

The bees closed in. Thousands of bees, their murmuring buzzing chorus
titillating little Johnny boy, stingers angry and shining in the sun, quivering
mad. Johnny jogged toward the clover field, licking his finger of the sweet
sweaty honey. Honeybuns, Johnny thought, and laughed until he fell rolling over
the start of clover. Honeybuns, thought Johnny, and he laughed, giggled, a
smile playing over his bare freckled puss. "Beeeeeeez!" Johnny exclaimed, as a
fuzzy buzzing cloud converged on little Johnny's honey sticky ass.

The sun rolled in golden fury, and hours later, when it had turned a dark
red, and sunset swollen, little Johnny boy lay stiff and puffy, pink and happy,
dead stinking sweet.