| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
A tall, narrow rectangle of reflective paper sits atop a wooden table lit by a single hanging lamp.
The view shifts closer, causing light to flash on the document’s silver surface, and comes to rest just above the table. Ornate, flowing script at the top of trifold brochure's gold-trimmed front face proclaims HoneyCon 2017. Beneath, in an oval that dominates the page, is an art nouveau depiction of a singular big rig: chandeliers for headlights; a cloud of merry bees pressed against the interior of its windshield; thick, viscous, and gravity-defying honey pouring from two fluted silver smokestacks. The impossibly opulent conveyance is angled as if to just pass the viewer on their left. So rich is the image’s detail, one could practically smell that sweet, golden flow, feel the warmth radiating from the stained glass hives arranged on the truck's bed, hear the elegantly muted purr of the powerful engine. Surely one’s pulse would race at the prospect of being, as the brochure states below the impressive artwork, a Flow Rider.
A single black claw emerges from the bottom of the frame, delicately dips beneath the lower right corner of the page, and flips it open. The brochure unfolds to reveal a description in florid prose of the HoneyCon 2017 experience and its circuitous transcontinental route. On the middle panel, a stylized diagram of the convention “grounds”: a series of trucks, vans, and cars, most connected by bridges of woven gold rope. Each vehicle houses various activities: hot honey spas, masquerade auctions, fine dining, panels, plenaries, impromptu beekeeping areas; a dynamically-angled insert boasts “sports car honeypolo.”
At the center of it all, impossible to miss, is an immense truck to which no gilded bridges connect. Despite the diagram’s simplified appearance, one can clearly count each of the vehicle’s 36 axles. At the center of its vast square bed is an oblong dome, perhaps 20 feet wide at its base. Text elsewhere in the brochure refers to this as the Dwarfstar Nectar Display, an exceedingly rare bee byproduct on loan from Farthington Apid Estates.
The frame shakes as a deep, desirous growl rumbles through the scene. More claws emerge, resolving into two paws that drum excitedly—frenziedly—on the table, disturbing the brochure before retreating. The growling grows softer as whatever produced retreats. The view zooms in on the now-flipped brochure. Though it's hard to read in the light of the now wildly swinging lamp, its rear page shows a small box— like a garage door opener elaborated with gold filigree—over the following text:
All of these fantastic options are accessible via your HoneyPass! The HoneyPass seamlessly synchs with our Entrance Stations to equalize your vehicle’s speed with that of the HoneyCon convoy and our boarding bridges. Furthermore, it grants access to any events and locations* authorized through your HoneyCon account. Register and secure yours today to ensure your Flow Ride is as smooth as can be!
*
Those queueing to view the Dwarfstar Nectar Display must make sure their HoneyPass Platinum is displayed at all times while they are on the Farthington Hauler, and that they carry two forms of valid identification.
You've been in the vehicle for hours. Impressive as HoneyCon 2017 is, it's had an extreme impact on traffic patterns nationwide. As you've crawled through stop and go traffic and past veritable forests of cheerful orange cones, you've had ample time to hear about how these issues. It's basically impossible to find a radio station that doesn't mention the con, be it in some flatulent shock jock zinger or library-tone NPR interview. Everyone's been shunted to state and local roads, but it seems like the con organizers offered incentives to make the headache worth it.
You understand all this. Despite being bears.
And being bears, it may have been difficult to maintain patience as you approached the interstate. But now your turn signal's flashing, you're accelerating, you're waving at the wide-eyed driver who ended their right-turn-on-red when they saw you pulling onto the on ramp. You're merging onto the highway, just past a large flatscreen billboard that proclaims HONEYCON 76.2 MILES AHEAD: ALL CON TRAFFIC USE LEFT LANE. Just as you pass, the number ticks to 76.1; when it does, the digital readout on the HoneyPass sitting in the cup holder also decreases by 0.1.
Only about an hour 'til HoneyCon.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
| 4 people marked this as a favorite. |
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
The limo's interior seamlessly shifts through all the colors of the rainbow, its lighting provided by tubes along the ceiling and below the long bench seats that run its length. Everything is black leather and dark wood paneling; even the floor is gleaming hardwood.
At the back, a refrigerator and entertainment system are tastefully camouflaged between two wide seats with button-covered armrests.
On the ceiling, surrounded by yet more elegant bands of light, is a heavily tinted sunroof.
At the front is a ragged hole where the partition between passenger and driver once stood. Pellets of shattered glass and twists of black plastic litter the floor before the hole.
Wafting from the hole, on a whimsical march towards the skylight, is a stream of fat bubbles. A pipe is barely visible past the edge of the ruined partition, as is a small sticker on the windshield: a simplified "U" logo.
Also, the whole limo is just eat up with bears.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Mel sits patiently in his cell, fur a wiry, unwashed black but for the cream stripe on his back. He taps his claws in a mindless rhythm on the stone bench as he once again regards his surroundings, occasionally lifting one clawed hand to absentmindedly scratch himself. The walls are concrete and razor wire, open to the sky, the door an iron gate secured with two locked bolts. Guards pass by from time to time. Some of them look in through the bars of the door, making sure he's still inside; most of them don't bother.
Mel sits patiently in his cell, contemplating the outside. This isn't the first time he's been confined. It won't be the last. He runs through an escape route in his mind, using his thin mattress and the dead ficus in the corner. Hard to be stealthy like that, but it could work with a little luck.
Mel sits patiently in his cell until he hears a car horn blare in that distinctive pattern. Short short short long. Short short short long. Hm. Must be Pineapple driving. He always did like Beethoven. Mel stands, stretches, and glances out the door at the guard casually walking toward away down the hall. He sticks a long claw through the door, easily unlatching the bolts (ah well, maybe I'll try that new route outta here next time), then pushes open the door to freedom, stopping only to grab a dusty straw cowboy hat that some careless employee left on a chair.
Mel strolls confidently out of the complex and down the front steps. When he reaches the curb and sees the limo waiting he rolls his eyes. "Where the hell d'ya get this nonsense?" he demands, climbing into the passenger seat.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Lola pawed through the backpack. Sandwiches, only peanut butter though, crackers shaped like tiny fish, some kind of dried pressed fruit. Not bad.
Tourists were just too easy. Gawking at the polar bears, not paying attention to their things. Especially the little ones. You just had to wait until the right moment, when they got just a little too close. And once you had their stuff, it just took one solid growl to send them all running.
The big pocket had clothes. Far too small for Lola, but she picked through anyway. A tiny top hat caught her attention. She put it on, and looked at her reflection. Yes. That would do nicely.
But what else was this? A stack of papers? A set of... passes? She recognized the honey logo and grinned, showing a little too much teeth. She knew exactly who could help with this.
A cheery pink backpack lies on the floorboards of the posh vehicle's passenger compartment, surrounded by a scattering of bright orange crumbs compartment.
Lola, you spot a glimpse of yourself in the heavily tinted windows; that hat really is quite handsome.
Mel, you're pulled from your thoughts by loud honking. A white Cadillac Escalade next to you is full of people grinning from ear to ear, talking and waving excitedly.
Pineapple Pizza navigates the flow of traffic (not as dense on the interstate, thankfully) for some 45 minutes, until something strange appears through the front windshield. On the horizon, in the median between the two broad stretches of road, something glitters like sun playing over water. The limo's air conditioner has begun to emit the faint but unmistakeable smell of warm honey.
The HoneyPass on the dash reads 2.9.
Mel, distracted by the minibar, fails to notice the folks in the car next door.
I wonder if they have any of that honey whiskey....
Pineapple Pizza is too busy changing lanes, and the radio station, and adjusting the sunroof, and thinking about HONEY to notice anything else!
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
******** Flashback ********
The combination bait shop/bar is a shambles, shelves knocked over and tables upended. The proprietor has locked themselves in the attic, pulling the ladder up behind them as the beast below continues towards its goal.
For a while, there's silence. Almost palpable, it's so thick. The proprietor cracks open the door slightly, as inaudibly as they can. Then it is broken, by a clink and a slow hiss, as the beast finds its prey.
After a moment, and a fizzing sound, the empty bottle of Molson Canadian rolls out of the walk-in freezer, onto the tile floor, following a lazy curved arc along the floor, settling directly below the trapdoor, within the proprietor's line of sight. More quiet and stillness follows until, like a dam bursting, a massive cacophony of shattering glass and primal roars follows, rivulets of beer flowing from the fridge onto the floor of the bar.
This continues until a car horn blares from outside. The black bear shuffles out of the fridge and hustles into the open limo door outside.
"About time, mes ami! Laissez les bons temps rouler!"
************************
Remy occupies himself by watching the scenery roll by out the window, the minor buzz from the case of beer having faded far too quickly.
He's enjoying himself too much to notice the people, or whatever they're saying.
Lola scratches at her chin thoughtfully. A nearby car makes noise and she rolls her eyes. Pah. Distractions. I’ve got to focus. We’re in to the show, but that’s not enough. We’ve got to get to the MEGAHONEY! But how?
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
The head of what looks like a lifelike Steiff brand teddybear shoves out; he wears a brown felt trilby encircled with a delicate silver-painted tiara. He looks sweaty and hungry.
Finding himself surrounded by other bears instead of the family of humans who had rented the limo days ago, the bear darts back inside. The hats tumble across the floor.
Seconds later a tiny bear leaps out and tries to bow; his legs give way and he rolls about on the floor, hissing and rubbing the muscles. Owwwwwweeeee… crampsss…
This goes on for several minutes, while the miles tick by. Finally, the bear collects the hats (greedily inspecting the plastic tiara, as if it's a great heirloom), slicks back his greasy fur, and places them each his head. He coughs. He adjusts the trilby at a jaunty angle. The tiara slides down at an odd angle.
Why… this is unexpected. Did you eat my family? The little bear shows his fangs and crouches, as if ready to pounce.
They were my marks. I expect honorable recompense for any and all damages incurred by wanton slaughter of perfectly good rubes. Unwittingly, they were transporting Timmy's cute little bear to honeycon. The bear growls (it sounds more like a squeak). I have a vested interest in this enterprise: I have cunningly planned my plan and boldly executed it; I have suffered in dark places, bent my plastic tiara, and experienced leg cramps beyond imagining — damages are clearly due me — Izzy Buttons, esquire — I shall hound my debtors to the ends of the earth! He licks his lips.
Mel looks at the little bear, then looks to Pineapple, Remy, and Lola, then back to the newcomer.
"Huh?"
Lola looks startled for a moment, then taps her chin thoughtfully. Yes, this is just what we needed. She grins, baring sharp teeth. ”We, too, are headed to the HoneyCon. And I think we may have a proposition for you.”
Remy has found the mini-bar, popped it open with a claw, and found a bottle of something brown and expensive.
"'Oo's dis lil frappadingue, den? Hahr you 'ere to 'elp us?"
The contents of the bottle quickly disappear into the apparent singularity contained in Remy's stomach.
Smacking his lips, he rumbles "When harh we stopping for lunch? J'ai besoin d'la bouffe! I'm 'ungry!"
Double P sets the cruise control, climbs through the little window that separates the driver from the rest of the limo, pulls a Red Bull out of the minibar, cracks it open and drinks deeply. He takes a look out of the sunroof then smiles excitedly at everyone.
”This is my first real heist,” he says, taking another chug. ”So I’m a little nervous. But whooo! MEGAHONEY! Can’t wait.”
Izzy Pokes Mel in the stomach. "Huh," indeed! But no… Timmy couldn't fit in there.
Seemingly lost in reflection he waddles back and forth, muttering to himself. Criminals, bandits, limo-thieves, picnic-befoulers, fugitives… French-Canadians: what could these reprobates know of heists, honey, ursine guile, or the ideals of a good swindle? They probably couldn't flimflam the fleece off their own cheeks! A challenge… to say the least.
He pauses and strokes his chin. But then again… here we are, in a limo en route to my destination, with that nannering family gone for good! Perhaps we can plan together toward our honeyed goal, or, plans notwithstanding, they can drive me to my honey.
He trundles up to Lola. You seem to be the master of this lovely caravan. You have proven some Ursine worth, making headway on the ever-winding trail of honey, and vanishing the former sapient occupants of this device. Perforce, I offer my services.
He doffs his cap. I am called Izzy Buttons: bunko bear, teddy impersonator, impresario, spy, and lover of honey! What is this proposition? Do you have a plan beyond blowing bubbles and crashing a limo?
He dives into the minibar, fishes out a box of Hi-C, and gnashes it open with his little teeth.
Mel follows Remy's lead, fishing blindly in the minibar, his hand emerging with a bottle of cheap whisky. He struggles with the screw cap in his claws for a moment before sticking the end of the bottle into his mouth and twisting, releasing the harsh brown liquid within. His gaze follows from Izzy to Remy and back as they converse, an annoyed look on his face.
"I didn't bust outta the slam to get poked by some stuffed up toy bear" he growls, swatting Izzy's hand away. "And I got no clue what either of you's sayin', 'cept for the lunch part. I'm all for that. Hey PP, what are you doin' back here? ain't you drivin'?"
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
”Sure I’m driving, what’s it look like? I’m just taking a break is all.” He finishes his Red Bull and throws the empty can out the sunroof. ”It’s a lot of work you know, dodging all these other cars all the time. Luckily I found the cruise control.”
He sighs in sweet relief over the cruise control.
Izzy turns and gets a melted chocolate bar out of the luggage. It has some fur stuck to it, and inside drips caramel.
He offers it to Mel. Here… not lunch, not Timmy… but a snack?
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
The limo swerves, and bumps the green Chevy Vega a lane over. The driver turns, intending to scream at the limo to pull over, but instead gawps at the empty seat. His cigarette falls out of his mouth and burns his jeans. He bends over to slap it out, and his long greasy hair catches fire.
The man howls. Beethoven's 5th booms in from his open window. The Vega swerves across several lanes of traffic, puffing smoke and narrowly missing the limo. It falls behind.
Izzy snickers and tosses the Snickers bar at Mel.
He crawls up through the divider and tumbles into the driver's seat. Standing on his tippy toes, grasps the wheel and holds it tight, but is far too small to see out the windshield.
I'm sure the sapiens build their great highways perfectly straight… they're so wretchedly boring.
He calls back. Lucky old Izzy's here, back at the wheel where he belongs, steering new friends straight and true!
Smoke billows behind. Izzy turns the Beethoven all the way up, to 11.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
As the limo gracefully reenters its lane, the aggressive strains of Beethoven's masterpiece drown out the worst of your collateral damage. A can of energy drink cracks against a motorist's windshield, sending her careening into a green vehicle driven by a man who is, strangely, aflame. Their shocked cries and scrambling hands cascade into a four lane standstill, the roadway strewn with angry drivers and crumpled hoods. Not unlike a limousine passenger compartment with a gaping minibar, shredded juice boxes, and clawed upholstery.
Your vehicle's wake transmutes delight and excitement into confusion and horror, but it speeds towards a different sort of alchemy. Gentle violins float through the speakers as the glittering horizons resolves as a marvelous sight: honey, level and flawless, has turned the median into a golden highway all its own.
Dozens of flatbeds and semis process down this opulent promenade. Their rear ends form a sort of wall enclosing your destination:
HoneyCon
There could be no doubt what this Detroit rampart conceals, but a huge banner proclaims it nonetheless. Draped between poles and trailer backs, wide as the honey highway itself, the banner looks like an immense fresco, all frolicking bees and smiling, cherub-like bears. A digital readout, styled as a scroll dangling from the paw of a winged ursus americanus, declares in regal, glowing cursive:
WELCOME, FLOW RIDERS, TO HONEYCON 2017
ALL ATTENDEEES HAVE HONEYPASSES READY
AND APPROACH DOCKING VESSEL
<---
Traffic slows, vehicles zippering into a single file headed towards an 18-wheeler draped in purple velvet ropes. Izzy pulls the limousine into the orderly queue. You wait your turn, giving you ample time to observe the arm like an airport jetway that extends from the back of the truck. Car by car, its articulated length settles a plush "mouth" against vehicle doors. Stained glass windows near this opening show passengers disembarking, while tuxedo-clad valets drive the vehicles under the banner and into the HoneyCon convoy.
Your turn comes. The limousine's size proves a challenge; you see the docking arm operator perched above the mouth furrow their brow in puzzlement, shrug, and settle the end onto your sunroof.
Strains of pleasant music waft into the passenger compartment. A ladder of gilded braid unfurls before your eyes, its tasseled ends swaying tantalizingly.
A man with an impeccably waxed mustache juts his head over the sunroof's lip, blue eyes crinkled in amusement. His expression quickly changes to (mostly) successfully masked confusion, and he stammers out a greeting.
"W..welcome to HoneyCon! If I could please see your HoneyPasses, we'll get you aboard as expeditiously as possible. And if it's not too presumptuous, I must say—wonderful cosplay!"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Before the man can see inside, Izzy curses: It's the fuzz!
He slams the car into park and jumps onto Lola's shoulder.
He boggles his eyes as wide as they go and sits perfectly still with his arms wide as if looking for a hug — like a teddy ruxpin bear.
He tries to mimick human speech, but his squeaky bear words sound more like a broken android's:
Hiiiii waannnnnn ooooooo bbbb eeeee yrrrrrrrr rrrrreeeeennnnnd.
His clawed limbs spread even wider, motioning for a hug. His huge button eyes penetrate deeply into the man's soul.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The man's mustache twitches slightly in response to Izzy's mangled speech. "I can hold the toy while you climb up, if you'd like!" Another twitch. Rich people are so weird.
"Please clip on your passes first, though. Protocol, I'm sure you understand!"
As the ticketing agent picks him up the broken toy, it wiggles its arms.
… … rrrrreeeeennnnnnnndd… …
Lola nods her head and harrumphs officiously. She then points toward the truck containing the megahoney and tilts her head quizzically.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The attendant reaches down and lifts Izzy, then steps back from the elegant ladder; out of sight of the limo, he grimaces at the little bear.
One by one you attach your HoneyPasses and climb the ladder, surfacing into the multicolored light cast by stained glass windows. The attendant leads you through the docking arm and into a large reception hall made from the truck's trailer. At regular intervals down its length are statues and installations depicting moments in beekeeping history.
The mustachioed attendant smiles wanly at Pineapple Pizza and hands Izzy over. "There we are. When you wish to retrieve your vehicle, just bring your HoneyPass to the valet station and we'll get it for you. You can find it, as well as all of HoneyCon's attractions, on the map at the end of the hall. Welcome, and enjoy your ride!"
He walks briskly off down the docking arm and disappears down the ladder.
Your group of cosplayers walks down the hall, past models of beehives and a giant plaster honeybear. At the far end are gilded double doors inlaid with a hexagonal pattern. Two guards dressed in gold and purple velvet uniforms reminiscent of Buckingham Palace stand on either side, holding "halberds" topped with smoke guns.
As promised, just before the doors stands a pedestal hosting a detailed diorama. It depicts the convention grounds, made up of trucks and vehicles of all sorts connected by bridges. At the center of the diorama is a massive trailer with a single beehive-shaped dome at its center.
Lola approaches and extends a claw towards it, tiling her head. One of the guards perks up.
"Ah, the megahoney! A very popular attraction. You can visit any time, but it looks like you'll need to upgrade to a HoneyPass Platinum." She smiles and points behind her. "Just head to guest services, out those doors and to the right."
Returning to her post, observant bears can hear her muttering. "Dunno why you'd pay a grand to see some fancy honey."
Lola speaks quietly to her companions. "Well, folks, these passes won't get us all the way. We need those fancy ones. I guess we need to find ourselves some marks." She starts scouring the crowd looking for people with Platinum passes and little self-awareness.
As the attendant passes him along doll, Izzy wonders who will carry him.
Put me atop that counterfeit honeybear, if you will. I will continue my charade from its gypsum shoulder, looking for platinum-toting rubes while doing so!
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
"Great idea! We could all pose as a diorama and when these foolish con-goers stop to take our pictures, we snatch their platinum passes!"
"Hmph. Sounds complicated. Why not just punch them and take their badges?"
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Perspicacious, Mel! When elaborate stratagems fail, we can regress to uncomplicated times. In the meanwhile…
He tilts his trilby and moonwalks onto the display; the tiara glitters in the spotlight. He does a twirl and lands perfectly still, posed as a bear cub begging for a treat.
Lola stares at Izzy with the fierce intensity reserved only for those who come up with ideas she wished she'd thought of. "Yes, that might work."
She joins the display, posed with her hand on her top hat. She tries to raise a foot up as though mid-pirouette, but loses her balance and tumbles to the ground.
"That won't work at all," she grumbles, moving away from the display.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Like any good French Canadian, Remy always has an accordion handy.
He shuffles over to the display and tries to pose like an animatronic ursine musician.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Oh, me me me! Pineapple Pizza puts down his bubble pipe, straightens his derby, and runs to join the display, rolling on to his back, arms bent, mouth open, and paws gripping imaginary shoots of bamboo.
"Oh, me me me! Pineapple Pizza puts down his bubble pipe, straightens his derby, and runs to join the display, rolling onto his back, arms bent, mouth open, and paws gripping imaginary shoots of bamboo.
Mel rolls his eyes at the ridiculous display, then joins his compatriots, choosing the pose of a mighty grizzly bear looming over prey. It looks...odd, considering the honey badger's short stature.
"What the—" The guards start from their quiet chat when the group of cosplayers whips into sudden action, bounding towards the wall to pose next to a clockwork beehive mobile.
They knit their brows in concern, talking animatedly amongst themselves. One presses two fingers against his neck, just below his ear, and mouths something. The guard who spoke earlier presses a finger against an earpiece.
While the guards are occupied, a group of four teens—to humans, they'd look about high school age—emerges from the docking arm. Dressed in sharp suits and hi top sneakers, they swagger youthfully towards the diorama and welcome area exit.
One, a nest of brown curls on his head, guffaws at the assembled bears.
"Yo, check this out!" He saunters closer to the frozen ursine criminals. "Pretty good statues—this place really is legit." His friends crowd closer, laughing and pointing at the "lifelike detail of these bomb-ass bears."
Fastened to each of their bespoke lapels is a glinting platinum HoneyPass, their digital readouts surrounded by copper scrollwork.
"Dude, that one's got an accordion!" One of the teens, sporting a sandy blond crew cut, pokes Remy's squeezebox, yelping when it emits a wheezing squeak.
"Little Michael Jackson!" Another, long black braid down her back, leans in towards Izzy.
"Yeah, but like, royal or something?" The fourth, styled coif shining with pomade, plucks Izzy's tiara-bedecked trilby from the small bear's head. He does an appallingly bad moonwalk away from the bears, spins, and poses. "I'm Prince Michael," he says in a poorly rendered British accent, before he and his friends break into laughter.
The guards nods, reaching some kind of accord with whoever's on the other side of the earbuds. The one who spoke to you earlier walks towards Lola. She kneels down to retrieve Pineapple Pizza's dropped pipe and extends it towards the polar bear bowl-first.
"Your friend dropped this. And excuse me..." She fumbles a bit, uncertain what polite title to give someone in a bear costume. "Uh. Yeah. Excuse me, but is this an act?" She gestures to the impromptu living statue exhibit and its teen patrons. "If so, I'll need to see your performance permit. If it's not, I'll have to ask you all to move along. The organizers wants to maintain a certain atmosphere at the convention." She looks at Lola expectantly.
The other guards begins walking towards the teens, a stern look on his face.
Lola grabs the outstretched hand of the staff member and squeezes tightly, letting her claws just graze the skin of the unfortunate woman. She maintains direct eye contact all the time, and then lets go.
Realizing that the subtle approach won't cut it, she instead lets out a hair-raising roar, hoping to scare her off.
The woman takes a step back, her eyes wide. Everyone else freezes in shock at the cosplayer's blast of sound and spittle.
Then screams and shouts echo in the entry hall.
Lola's roar cuts off the beginning of the bepomaded teen's screech, and he begins scrambling after the others—still wearing Izzy's hat(s)—as they begin fleeing towards the door leading to the convention grounds. The spittle-flecked guard is close behind.
The remaining guard makes eyes at Lola in a way that says this ain't worth minimum wage, then begins marching briskly away.
As Lola roars, Remy "bumps" the teen who was touching his squeezebox, trying to lift the Platinum pass during the distraction.