“Why are you telling *me* all this, Baker Bloch, he he?”
“I’m a Bee? I’m no longer a Bee in any way, shape, form. I don’t even have the antennae any more. Here,” and Hucka Doobie tilts the top of her head toward Baker and pats it. “Nothing.”
“You’re from Mammoth Cave, right?”
“No. Never said that.”
“I think you did.”
Hucka Doobie shakes her antennae-less head and crosses her arms over her red plaid vest.
She uncrosses her arms. She crosses her arms. She stares.
“Aahhh. So it was *you* that tied the bow on that building… shed. Whatever.”
“Maybe.” It was a more definitive answer than Mammoth Cave. I decided to press.
“How old are you, Hucka Doobie? 108?”
Shaking again this time. I figured former host Charles Nelson Blinkerton would have been about that age. Had he lived. Boy, hadn’t thought about *him* in a long time. And Hucka Doobie use to *be* him. A him. Took a while, I suppose, for all the hormones to work their way out, alongside (and parallel with) the bee stuff it seems. I decided to press even further. I asked about a man-bee fusion.
But Hucka Doobie was gone. She didn’t fly away, but just took flight. She’d made her point I suppose. Center Point.