Seven Eleven

The Seven Eleven was almost completely dark, aside from a single resilient hallogen bulb somewhere in the back, flickering it's luminescent swan song. Kenny, standing outside, slipped the respirator mask over his head, completing the assemblage of his battle gear. Slowly, methodically, he and his team entered the establishment.

The place was outstandingly quiet, the kind of quiet that gives volume to thoughts of anticipated horror. Their footsteps echoed on the checkered linoleum while a rotating spit of wienies still revolved under a heatlamp, squeaking intermitently. A soft moaning sounded from behind the checkout counter.

"Abdul! Hang tight buddy, we're gonna get you out of here." Kenny rushed to his friend's side. Abdul had been like a father to him, purveying endless supplies of cigarettes and titty magazines for his enjoyment throughout the years. Now he lay on the ground in a pool of his own blood; scratched, bruised, beaten.

"I have withstood many trials as a convenience clerk. I have been shot, robbed, and ripped off by the wienie rotisserie repair guy many, many times. Who would have thought it would end like this."

"Don't talk like that, you're gonna make it, ya hear? You're gonna make it."

Abdul caughed up a little blood and said, "You should grab a slushy before they get too warm. New flavor this week, Frosty Chocolate Holocaust. This one's... on... me." He died.

***

That was not the beginning of the story. It all began with the installation of a swing set in an ordinary suburban backyard. Ed Finley, the software consultant to whom the backyard belonged, had just set it up as birthday present to his four year old son. It was a fine piece of hardware.

"Alright kiddo, you ready to go for a swing?" Ed was anxious to see the fruits of his labor pay off.

"No," replied the kid. He sat on the ground, ripping tufts of grass out of the lawn.

"C'mon Peety, Daddy'll get you started, you'll love it."

"Peety hungry."

"It's 'I'm hungry' Peety. Besides, you just ate. Alright champ, into the swing." Ed lifted Peety off the ground.

The child squirmed rebelliously as Ed attempted to wrestle him into a seat. "Me no like!"

"Yeah, well, me so horny since your mom died but you don't hear me complain. Get in the damn swing!" Eventually he managed to get his son positioned relatively securily into one of the seats. After a few pushes, Peety's screams of discontent had converted into giggles, as Ed had predicted.

"Higher, daddy, higher!" yelled Peety, gleefully.

"Alright, son! See, whadid I tell ya?" Ed gradually ramped up the power of his pushes. Wow, thought Ed, what we have here is a classic, ideal Americana scene. Like something out of the fifties. Just father and son sharing some quality time together and-

Two things happened at once. First, the swing set came apart, just as Peety was nearing the apex of his forward push. Secondly, the world's smallest tornado whipped through the backyard, courtesy of the worlds largest butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and carried Peety straight over the fence separating the Finley's backyard from the next one over.

The next yard over happened to be the property of a sixty-seven year old retired widow by the name of Mauve Yedders. Ms. Yedders had a passion for three things, as it turned out.

1.) The cultivation of bees.

2.) The cultivation of cats.

3.) The cultivation of large (or 'copious,' as was many of her clients' preferred adjective) amounts of marijuana.

The laws of highly improbable physics propelled the child into one of the hives. The structure itself broke his landing, as it fell apart fairly easily when he ran into it. This, of course, released a large swarm of bees. You may cringe at the thought of this situation, however, of all days to crash into one of Ms. Yedders's beehives, today was the day.

For as it turned out, earlier that morning, Mauve had been tending to her crop (juxtaposed directly beside the bees), but had made the mistake of carelessly leaving behind a still-burning cigarette butt when she finished. This caused a small, smokey fire that she quickly noticed from her living room and was able to extinguish rather quickly. Unfortunately, the smoke had already taken it's tole on the bees, who were still feeling the impact of the fire when Peety decended from the heavens into one of their houses.

And so, Peety found himself relatively unharmed (as the author is required to make him, seeing as he is a child), albeit covered in lazy disoriented bees and their honey.

Ms. Yedders's cats (she cared for about a half dozen, the seventh one undertook seasonal migrations) happened to love honey, and were soon eagerly darting out the pet door into the yard. And this is how young Peety Finly found himself covered in honey, stoned bees, and cats.
It was also in this particular state of being the Ed Finly found his son after hopping the fence to retrieve his kid.