BLAGO’S LAW: THE BUZZ OF JUSTICE
BLAGO’S LAW: THE NIGHT HIVE ASCENDANT
In the suffocating hush of midnight, when even the crickets dared not chirp, the air vibrated with a deep metallic rumble. The sound rippled through walls, seeped into bones, and warned the entire town that Blago had begun his patrol. Some people prayed. Some hid. All listened. Blago was no ordinary bee. He wore armor patched with the remains of those who had defied him—torn fabrics, snapped jewelry, scraps of items that once belonged to the unlucky. His wings no longer hummed like a bee’s; they whined like machinery straining under something unnatural. Blago didn’t merely enforce order. He imposed obedience through fear sharpened to a weapon. And if fear alone didn’t work… he had other methods. Everyone knew it. But nothing in the night struck terror like his truck. A brutal monstrosity of steel and stripes, trembling with stored aggression. Its honeycomb headlights glowed too bright, too hungry. The cage welded to the back was warped, dented from the inside, scratched with fingernails that had tried—and failed—to escape. Carved into its sides: BLAGO’S LAW. The carving was deep enough that the metal looked wounded.
THE NIGHT PURGE
Every night, the truck’s snarling “BRRRZZZZZ!” ripped through the darkness, louder than it needed to be—intentionally loud, a declaration that someone would not see morning the same as they’d seen night. Blago hunted the petty tyrants of everyday life: loud chewers, queue cutters, table-gum cowards, door-slammers, creeps who touched without permission, and anyone who weaponized small cruelties. But now, his judgment was harsher. His patience thinner. His strikes more punishing. He didn’t merely swoop in—he stalked his targets, trailing them through alleys, lurking behind them, letting them hear the faint buzz of wings just long enough to know they were prey. When he finally descended, it wasn’t swift—it was deliberate. He seized offenders by the collar, arm, throat of a hoodie—whatever he could grab—and slammed them against the side of his truck so hard the metal vibrated. “YOU HAVE BEEN FOUND IN VIOLATION OF BLAGO’S LAW.” Some struggled. Some apologized. Some screamed. Blago never hesitated. The cage door clanged shut behind them with a cold, final violence that silenced entire streets for the rest of the night.
THE HIVE OF REFORM — DEEPER NOW
Hidden in a valley perpetually cloaked in shadow stood Blago’s hive-prison, but it had changed. Grown. Hardened. It pulsed with a dim internal glow, as if something alive writhed behind the walls. Inside, the worker bees patrolled with mechanical precision. Their stingers gleamed—not with poison, but with something Blago called “corrective reinforcement.” The troublemakers were processed with ritualistic cruelty: forced into endless apology drills under blistering lights, made to hold perfect posture while worker bees swarmed around them whispering their failings in unison, pushed to recite lists of their offenses until they trembled and stumbled over their own guilt. In special chambers, offenders faced mirror-honey panels that warped their reflections, making them look distorted, monstrous, less human with each passing hour. By the time the reform was complete, most didn’t talk about what happened inside. A few tried. None made it far before the worker bees gently silenced them.
THE QUEEN OF JUSTICE — UNLEASHED
Some nights, Blago’s patrol grew far worse—for those were the nights the Queen descended. She was tall, armored in segmented plates that clicked like bones snapping into place, her crown glowing with pulsing energy. She moved with grace, but her presence alone felt like judgment given form. When she glided beside Blago, even shadows dared not move. “Who disturbs our order tonight?” she asked, her voice smooth but laced with a threat that made offenders freeze mid-step. “Only the deserving, my Queen,” Blago replied. Together, they hunted with relentless precision, leaving behind empty sidewalks, locked windows, and a silence so deep it felt holy. Those who disappeared on Queen nights returned… changed. Their smiles were too polite. Their apologies too rehearsed. Their eyes too wide and obedient. Those who didn’t return became stories whispered in trembling tones.
THE TOWN’S CAREFUL BREATHING
As dawn clawed over the horizon, Blago’s truck rolled back toward the valley, sometimes empty, sometimes rattling with terrified sobs. In the hive, former offenders sat in silent rows, honey-toast untouched, their hands trembling slightly as they stared at nothing. Blago stretched his metallic wings, exhaustion creaking through him. “Another night of order restored,” he murmured. “Another victory for Blago’s Law.” The town didn’t feel safer. It felt watched. Judged. Corrected. Everyone moved quietly, politely, always careful, always aware. Because if you behaved perfectly, Blago and the Queen might leave you alone. But if you didn’t… if you slipped, even once… Somewhere in the depths of the valley, the truck engine snarled awake again, hungry for another violation.