“Stupid effin’ bees!” Electric linesman Horace Davison was pissed.
“Ain’t bees. . .they’re Bald-faced hornets. See th’ nest?” Donald Chantor pointed to a large, grey, bulbous mass in a downed tree. A buzzing cloud surrounded it.
“Bees. Hornets. Potato – potahto. . .,We’ve gotta get these lines up and that tree’s in th’ way.”
“Dude, you hit that tree with a chainsaw and we’re both dead!”
“So we do what?
“Wait ‘til night and put a trash bag over it.”
“The great tree has fallen. We are at the mercy of the creatures of the ground.” The Hornet Queen exuded calming chemicals. “Maintain the Cloud of Defense, but do not attack unless they touch the nest.”
Night fell. Wearing impervious Haz-Mat suits, the men worked quickly, cutting branches with loppers and tying the bag. Donald carried it to a tree at the edge of a wooded area. Horace drove the bucket truck. The nest was raised and wired into a new tree.
“We must stabilize the nest,” the Queen mused. “I thought we were destroyed when it moved.”