I used to catch bees in a manner that would have horrified Pol Pot. Stick in hand, I would march up to any available honeybee (blissfully unaware) and give it a solid whack with the weapon. At this point the bee would do one of three things: A. Sustain injuries (I refuse to accept liability) B. Die or C. Fly away because I missed it completely. If I injured the bee (or at least stunned it enough that it was not able to fly), I would grab it by its back and plop it into a container of my choice. From that point I would generally subject it to a number of tortures: shaking, poking, or even drowning. I considered myself somewhat of a bee hunter extraordinaire; I knew the proper amount of force to knock them out, and I knew the clover fields where they frequented well. To be fair, my activities were not exactly humanitarian in nature, but I was a young kid, and during the long, hot, dull summer days, any sort of entertainment was welcomed as a godsend. Up until a particularly unparticular July day, I went about my genocidal business without consequences. That was the
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