“B-7,” Mary Hoffer called from the front of the crowded church hall, her voice distorted by the poorly maintained PA equipment.

“BINGO!” shrieked Gladys Reynolds, excitedly waving her Bingo board above her head. Marilyn Feinstein rushed over – as well as she can rush, that is – to check the card. She adjusted her bifocals to the end of her nose and read the card.

“B-4?”
“Yes,” answered Mary, checking the master board.
“B-6.”
“Yes.”
“B-12.”
“Uh-huh.”
“B-16?”
“Sure thing.”
“And B-7.”
“That’s a good Bing-”

“God Damn It!” came the protest from Harold Cuttingham. His wife, Esther, tried to pat his shoulder. “No, I’m serious. Every damn time?! That’s not good luck; it’s a conspiracy! You’re telling me that those three have coffee every day and don’t imagine ways to screw us all over in Bingo?”

“Harold, please,” Esther began, but it just made Harold more angry. He crumpled the paper Bingo card, threw it in the general direction of Gladys, and flew out the entrance.

(All the characters in this story are bees.)