Falconer Jones and the Palace of Bees

Falconer Jones, the world's most incredible mechanical engineering professor, stood there bedazzled by his nemesis, despite his massive bulk of documents. His knees had stopped shaking, but the stains of coffee on his brand new pants made him appear more frightened than an Azerbaidjani mollusk in a trumpet.

"Damn you, Baron von Chesterheim, and that dog, too! If it weren't for this blasted rabbit coffee pot stuck up my hippopotamocampus… You leave Nefertiti alone, or I'll taunt you!"

His rival cackled like rivals do and gestured towards his really impressive collection of mummified childrens' heads. "Now, you silly, silly Brazil nut, it's time to experience some agony, no?"

Jones gaped as the mummified heads began to sing a jaunty tune about Aztec transvestites in New Delhi while stacking a pallet of bees on top of The Device. It was menacing, yet strangely… catchy. He felt a dance coming on…

*musical interlude*

The song had somehow gained sentience, tragically. It cried, never again would it get free samples of delicious dwarven homemade mead, which were usually its only sustenance during the cold and lonely Christmas. This was no minor inconvenience, because the mead was really, really tasty.

Jones, meanwhile, was dictating a letter to his trusty companion Sir Mix A Few. "To err is human; … HOLY SHIT, BEES!"

Fortunately, his trusty knives (PARLIAMENT UPROAR!: TRUSTY KNIVES!) remained firmly embedded within his leg…ow.

"Now is time for sleepies," yawned the depressed Song, as it stumbled towards the vat of vinegar below. The vat bubbled menacingly, as the baking soda that the Baron had foolishly mistaken for a fly-attracting agent released its inner. It was not without pleasure, that inner; in fact, it had purchased heroin-flavoured toothpaste from a badger just a few years in advance of the Great Heroin-Flavoured Toothpaste Shortage of 2023. With too much gusto and not enough pesto, the pasta proceeded to writhe, spindle and mutilate the hyper pope's Crucifix Rocket before it launched at (cue dramatic music)… THE BURJ DUBAI.

"No!" screamed Chesterheim, weeping tears of blackest pitch. He seductively removed his head, revealing a three-toed sloth, whose sheepish smile twisted as he realized—moments too late—that Jones had finally managed to kick-start his revolving Time Door and release the bee-eating beefeaters from their enormous aluminum AntiHive. Chesterheim gently stroked the sloth's ego… which was odd as, in this land, stroking was illegal.

But Falconer let him stroke on.

Blissfully unaware, but for the obviously erect statue which glistened salaciously.

Sir Digby Chicken, entrenched in his massive Trench Coat, had nearly arrived in time. Sadly his time machine did not exist so he didn't have many options other than calling Mr. Mojo Risin'. But he dreaded the Lizard King's nefarious plot to light his fire with a Flamethrower made of nano-flamethrowers. Strange days and ordinary evenings collided in a Large Hadron Collider of inappropriate metaphors.

But he knew of nothing that could invert a willing response from any of the Almighty beaver kings. So he turned on the lights and turned down an offer of four stroke turntables, which Mr. Mojo had stolen from… Shit! You broke the sun! Now dance!, who was the Lizard King's left-handed right-hand man and whose parents hated him. Suddenly, Falconer Jones re-entered his house boat with a sturgeon attached to his glass eye. He was carrying a jar of honey under one arm and holding a serious grudge against the bathroom faeries. "Them faeries stole…" he began, "…my gravy train, dawg!" So he fetched said eye sturgeon to perform sturgery on them for the sake of retrieving the lost gravy train. However, he hadn't anticipated the fabled exploding spade of doom (…)

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