Vol 9: The Hangover Protocol

It all started with a daisy-scented breeze and a suggestion from my long-lost cousin, Buzzwell. "Let's visit the Big Apple," he chirped. "A few watering holes, a nip of fermented nectar. It'll bee grand."

Now, let me explain something. Buzzwell was always the more adventurous pollen in the pod. I, Mr B. Archer, am a bee of temperance and tactical discipline. But as the sun dipped behind the Empire State Building and the meadows turned to metal, I thought: why not? What could possibly go wrong?

Of course, the first question one might reasonably ask is: how did I, a bee of modest wing strength, make it to New York City in the first place?

Simple. I hitched a lift on a retired albatross named Algernon. Lovely fellow. Slightly deaf, fond of sea shanties, and not entirely sure where New York was. But we made it—after an accidental detour via Iceland and a brief misunderstanding involving a bagel.

Fast-forward to the next morning. I woke up in a cardboard palace wedged between two dumpsters, wearing a traffic cone and humming a tune I'd never heard before. My coin purse? Gone. My cousin? Vanished. My dignity? Pollinated and blown to the wind.

I staggered onto Fifth Avenue, wings buzzing with dehydration and confusion. That's when I heard it.

"Can I help you, sir?"

A sound like thunder with manners. I looked up, and up, and up. There, gleaming in the noonday sun like a cherry-dipped skyscraper, stood the largest robot I had ever seen. Polished chrome. Articulated fingers. A gaze of eternal curiosity. And, most astonishing of all, he knew Buzzwell.

"Bit of a lush, is he?" the robot chuckled, his voice equal parts espresso and thundercloud. "Hop on. I'll drop you back."

And so I did. I climbed into his palm, dodged a fingerprint groove, and held my bow tightly as he rose above the fields of sunflowers and daisies. From up there, I could see New York stretching like a steel honeycomb, and beyond it, the golden meadow where my cousin’s burrow puffed lazy trails of smoke.

When we landed, I saluted the gentle giant. The photo you see here? Taken just before I leapt down with a wobble, still slightly tipsy and full of questions.

Buzzwell greeted me with a mug of rehydrating thistle tonic. "Did you enjoy your crawl, cousin?" he winked.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy discreetly removing a parking ticket from my tunic and reading the tiny handwritten note scribbled on the back:

“Next time, try the rooftop bar on 82nd. First round’s on me. — R.”

Words of Wisdom: Sometimes it takes losing your wallet, your cousin, and your balance to find a new friend. Especially one with hydraulics. And always read the back of the ticket.