EFF THE MOTHER-EFFING QUEENS.
'sides*, ain’t a one of them that could catch the Those Who Deem Inappropriate the Singing of Disney Songs in the Office Bathroom Are Not Worthy of Acknowledgement.
But… a Hive is a Hive. Don’t get me wrong - being surrounded by wax on all six sides is everybody’s dream, but hives are a bit too insular for my tastes. I’m a free-range space-bee-man. Give me space, lots of space, under starry skies around, don’t hive me in.
I don’t rightly know what most of the hives think of me and mine. I do know that my ex-wife does not think too highly of me, but that feeling is mutual (and it ain’t a patch on what the Not Worthy thinks of her, yikes, can that ball-o-wax hold a grudge). Anyhow, she’s without workers and without a hive. You don’t mess around on a client of Flywheel, Space-Shyster, and Flywheel and think you’ll get away with something. She was lucky to get away with her wings. I got the wax, a genetic algorithm to reconfigure her dusty hexagons into a Worthy ship, and a bunch of grubs that can match any crew this side of the great 12-second Halictidae Pulsar.
* six, count them, six!