The finance jabronis aren’t all bad, and some even exhibit self-control with the female wait staff. But the guy wearing the pastel-colored Canali shirt and expensive plum blossom aftershave? He’s the worst kind – engaged, handsome, rich, and arrogant. His ridiculous, OCD behavior, and the tone of his adenoidal voice are minor quirks in comparison to his need to pinch the ass of every woman that has the unfortunate task of being near him.
Leaning back in his chair and snapping lazily at the waitress in the tight T-shirt, he gutters, “Tonic. Three orange slices.”
The waitress, a former reality TV star, nods with a devious smile, perhaps wondering what would result in her bringing only two orange slices as opposed to three. Her smile fades as the man evaluates her legs, making no attempt to hide his wandering eyes. She frowns, grabs the empty glasses from the table in a swift swoop, and then stacks them on a tray.
Under strict instructions from management to divert all sexual advances into consuming more alcohol, she quickly repeats his demand with a wink. “Gin and tonic with three orange slices.”
With hooded eyes and parted mouth, the man runs his index finger up the side of her exposed leg. “Delicious.”
The waitress fidgets slightly, but then rasps, “Would you like something to eat?”
Stalling at the hem of her denim skirt, he taps his finger on her thigh and grins. “Are you offering?” he asks, his mouth practically watering.
The waitress lowers her head and laughs into her chest. Six months ago, she lived on an uninhabited island in the Maldives, feasting on barbecued beetles and showering with monkeys – surely she can handle the forward presumptions of a drunken idiot.
“Something raw, or something sweet, Paul?” Her reply is fluid yet snarky – and of course she knows his name – Paul Holbrook’s Amex is in her back pocket.
“Mmm, surprise me,” he snarls.
As the waitress glides back to the main kitchen purposely swaying her hips, Paul removes his phone to text his fiancée. He doesn’t have the slightest chance with the waitress, but sometimes, flirtatious hope is all a dick needs to get off.
Paul pecks at his phone with squinted eyes, pausing briefly to swat at a hovering insect. His creative excuse this evening: Important client visiting from Hong Kong. Staying Downtown. Paul Holbrook works in the European division. But his fiancée doesn’t fully understand what he does at work, or that he has a key to a corporate apartment on Front Street.
Her naive reply: Trader Joe’s is out of Brussels sprouts again!
Rolling his eyes, Paul drops his phone into the pocket of his striped dress shirt just as an associate from his firm plows into him. Unintentionally, the man spills a clear drink down Paul’s arm. Pissed, Paul jumps from his chair and shoves the other man into an empty table. “Garrison, you prick!” Paul squawks.
Startled, Garrison replies, “Calm down, Paul. It’s only seltzer.” Regaining his balance, Garrison takes a step toward his group of middle-aged buddies. Jokingly, the men raise their glasses to toast the alpha-male entertainment unfolding before them. Amused, Garrison takes a bow, but Paul grabs his arm, knocking the seltzer glass to the ground to shatter into a dozen pieces.
“Come near me again, and I’ll fucking kill you, faggot,” Paul grates while rolling his neck.
Garrison Barker, a widower and father of two, is not a homosexual. But his beloved younger brother is openly gay. Certain words are triggers, and although Garrison’s brother doesn’t engage in retribution or violence, Garrison prefers to defend his loved ones with an aggressive approach.
Clenching his fists into whitening knuckles, Garrison shifts his weight to an offensive boxing position he learned in college. He’s ready to throw the first punch, a left jab to Paul’s smug face, but surprisingly, Paul slaps his own cheek.
Distracted by the overwhelming humming sound, Garrison mumbles, “What the . . . ?”
Straight from a horror movie, thousands of yellow and black insects circle the restaurant, dipping as a spherical unit to investigate the sweet smells lingering on the tables. The growing mass buzzes and swoops, causing patrons and employees to panic. Hands are flailing, and white cloth napkins are used to surrender, as the crowd runs from the waterfront restaurant dialing 911 from their phones.
Only a few seconds pass before the panicked hysteria becomes a contagion of silence. Due to shock or curiosity, every bystander within a one-block radius whips out their phone to document the disturbing sight thrashing before them.
#attackofthebees #seaport #swarming
Covered from head to toe in a buzzing, black cloud of honeybees, is none other than the lying, cheating, sexist, perverted, homophobic, anaphylactic asshole, Paul Holbrook.
He had it coming.
“During my first year as a rookie, I logged more hours in a patrol car than any cop in my unit. I also gained fifteen pounds.”
Chapter One
Gotham Online
NYC Detective Swarms to the Rescue
By: Darby Wallace
Any hopes of toasting the holiday weekend were interrupted last Friday evening when a swarm of bees invaded the popular dining establishment, Dunbar’s Oyster House. As the sun was setting over the New Jersey horizon, and happy hours were becoming early dinners, a swarm of 35,000 bees ransacked the restaurant in search for a new home. A NoHo resident dining in the Seaport was stung several times, but he is expected to make a full recovery.
311 or 911 – who ya gonna call? Like a scene from the iconic Ghostbusters, Detective Raymond Paggetti, the New York City Police Department’s unofficial beekeeper, rolled onto Beekman Street in a yellow truck with black stripes. After police officers secured the infested area, Det. Paggetti began his efforts in safely capturing the honeybees. With a large metal box and an insect vacuum, Det. Paggetti meticulously rescued the homeless bees within the first hour of his arrival.
As the newest superhero to grace the streets of Manhattan, Raymond Paggetti claims he’s just a regular guy from Long Island. His interest in bees began as a teenager when he found an active hive inside his family’s Suffolk County barn. The fascination grew, providing him with the title of Youngest Beekeeper in the Long Island Beekeeper’s Association.
While serving two tours in Afghanistan, Paggetti worked closely with an American development program providing beekeeping training courses to Afghani farmers as an alternative to the opium trade. Paggetti joined the police force in 2004, and has been responding to bee emergencies since 2006, the year he was promoted to Detective on the unofficial “bee bee-t.”
Since mid-March, Paggetti has responded to thirty swarm invasions, the largest yielding close to 75,000 homeless bees. “It’s not an easy job, but one I find very rewarding,” he said, adding that we need bees for more than honey. Our ecosystem relies on bees to pollinate close to one-third of the world’s food supply. Paggetti holds the recent warm weather and the decrease in formidable hive conditions responsible for the current bee situation in New York City.
On the northern edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Levi Jones, a partner at Brooklyn Soil Rooftop Farm, was prepared to accommodate the Seaport bees. By setting up bait hives of queen bee pheromones mixed with lemon grass oil, Mr. Jones was able to lure the queen and the swarm to specific locations. The Seaport swarm has settled in nicely in Brooklyn, and currently occupies some prime real estate with one of the best views of Manhattan.