The cool night air settles over Cashwood Grove, the forest alive with chirping insects and rustling leaves. The full moon casts a silvery glow over the path as Lincoln trudges along, his frying pan strapped to his back and the Trinket from the baker safely tucked into his pocket. The quiet is broken by a faint, off-key singing drifting through the air.
Lincoln: (frowning) What the heck is that?
As he rounds a bend, he spots a disheveled man slumped against a tree. The man's unkempt hair, messy mustache, and rumpled clothes are a disaster, but Lincoln freezes when he notices the man's face—it looks exactly like his dad's, but older and way more pitiful. The man clutches a nearly empty bottle of honey mead, swaying as he hums an off-key tune.
Lincoln: (staring, incredulous) No way.
Mr. Bee: (hiccups, looking up) Eh? Who're you? You look familiar…
Lincoln: (crossing his arms) I could say the same thing. You look like my dad, but with less…everything.
Mr. Bee: (grinning lazily) Oh, the resemblance is uncanny, huh? I used to be somebody, kid. A real charmer! But… (takes a long swig of mead) life's a cruel mistress. A cruel mistress!
Lincoln: (raising an eyebrow) Let me guess. You're the "no-good husband" the baker mentioned.
Mr. Bee: (snorting) Yeah. That bitch tossed me out. Apparently, the hive keeps gettin' stolen. Like it's my fault! Stupid thing didn't fit me anyway. You seen her? Fat as hell. Stupid bitch.
Lincoln: (cringing) Okay, I think I've heard enough.
Mr. Bee: (waving him off) Yeah, yeah, you're like the rest of 'em. Off to save the day or some crap. Fine. I won't bother tellin' you about the big-breasted babe, then.
Lincoln: (pausing, confused) The big what?
Mr. Bee: (grinning slyly) Ahhh, that got your attention. She's lovely, kid. Real stunner. That's why the wife kicked me out. All I wanna do is pollinate her. She's got stigmas like you wouldn't believe!
Lincoln: (blinking) Pollinate? Are you serious?
Mr. Bee: (shrugging) I'm a man with priorities. She's over there, behind us.
Mr. Bee gestures with his bottle. Lincoln turns and follows his gaze, his eyes widening in shock as the camera pans to reveal a massive sunflower in the clearing. The sunflower stands tall, her petals glowing golden under the moonlight. But what stands out most are her, uh, assets. The sunflower boasts an exaggerated hourglass figure, her top half busting out of leafy greenery and her backside as round and prominent as a ripe peach. She wiggles her hips playfully and slaps her, uh, stem, leaving a faint red mark.
Lincoln: (stammering, his eyes wide) Wait, what?
Mr. Bee: (grinning) Stunner, ain't she? That's my girl.
Lincoln: (horrified) But she's a sunflower!
Mr. Bee: (offended) So? What'd you expect, huh? She's got big breasts and a naughty ass! I'm a man with needs, kid!
Lincoln: (groaning) I need bleach for my brain…
Mr. Bee: (patting Lincoln on the shoulder) You like spanking women, don't ya?
Lincoln: (stammering) Uh…I…uh…
Mr. Bee: (smirking) Yeah, me too. It's a helluva time. Look, buddy, I need your help.
Lincoln: (incredulous) With what?
Mr. Bee: (gesturing to the sunflower) She needs pollinatin', and I'm just the guy to do it. But to make it happen, I need my boys—the Bumble Tickle Brigade.
Lincoln: (blinking) The what now?
Mr. Bee: (serious) My crew of pacifist bumblebees. Problem is, they've gone rogue. Scattered all over the grove, refusing to help. But if you can find 'em and bring 'em back, we'll get this show on the road.
Lincoln: (groaning, rubbing his temples) Let me guess—there's a Trinket in it for me?
Mr. Bee: (grinning) You bet your sweet ass, kid.
Lincoln sets off to find the Bumble Tickle Brigade, his disbelief at the sheer absurdity of his task only growing as he encounters each bee. The first is meditating under a tree, muttering about achieving "inner pollen peace." Lincoln manages to coax him back with some harsh words and a quick swing of his frying pan.
Meditating Bee: (buzzing reluctantly) Fine, fine. But I'm only doing this for the greater good.
The second bee is hosting a poetry reading by the creek, his audience of frogs croaking appreciatively. Lincoln rolls his eyes and drags him away mid-sonnet.
Poetry Bee: (buzzing dramatically) But I was on the brink of my magnum opus!
Lincoln: (dryly) Yeah, I'm sure the frogs were riveted. Let's go.
The third bee is running a pop-up yoga class, the fourth is busy crafting artisanal pollen candles, and the fifth is hosting a beekeeping seminar for the locals. Lincoln gathers them all, his patience worn thinner than the pages of a middle school romance novel.
Lincoln: (dragging the last bee) Come on, you idiots. Your boss is waiting.
Back in the clearing, Mr. Bee grins as his crew assembles, ready to assist in his, uh, "pollination" efforts. The sunflower wiggles in anticipation, her petals glowing brighter as the bees swarm around her.
Lincoln: (grimacing) I don't want to see this. I really don't want to see this.
The screen fades to black, but suggestive buzzing noises and the sunflower's delighted giggles make the scene all too clear. After a few awkward seconds, the buzzing stops, and the sunflower's sultry voice cuts through the silence.
Sunflower: (purring) Mmm, that was lovely. Thank you, my darling.
Mr. Bee: (panting) Anything for you, babe.
The clearing is illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, the massive sunflower standing tall and swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Her exaggerated curves and sultry demeanor make Lincoln freeze, his jaw tightening as he tries to process the absurdity of what he's witnessing.
Sunflower: (smiling, her voice dripping with honey) Well, well, little man. Fancy going for a slap?
She turns, bending slightly as her, uh, ample backside wiggles suggestively. A shimmer of moonlight glints off her petals, highlighting her figure. Lincoln's eyes widen comically, his jaw dropping as the weight of her question hits him.
Lincoln: (blinking, utterly stunned) A…slap?
He pauses, looking down at his hands, then at the sunflower, then back at his hands. The sheer insanity of the moment washes over him, and something snaps—his disbelief turning into a kind of resigned acceptance.
Lincoln: (grinning slyly) Okay. Now this is what I call a fanfic!
He cracks his knuckles, smirks at the sunflower, and steps forward as the screen fades to black. The sound of a resounding slap echoes through the night, followed by the sunflower's delighted laughter and Lincoln's exaggerated sigh.