#mellified

Anybody else remember Miss Mellified?

mellified bees (preserved in honey), $9 shipped in the US. DM to purchase.

The first of an ongoing series of “weird liches” I’ve been working on is this horrible little lass- Miss Mellified! I decided to keep her relatively healthy looking, since she started preserving herself while she was still alive and also because I think slowly realizing your host is more than “a bit sticky” is scarier than a gummy zombie.

a drawing based on my research on mellified men, and the Fazbear Frights book I read, The New Kid. ⚠️⭐💀🍯🫁🍯💀⭐⚠️ - - #mellifiedman #mellified #honey #bees #honeybees #goldenfreddy #fredbear #freddyfazbear #freddy #fazbear #goldenfreddyfnaf #fnafgoldenfreddy #fnaffreddy #freddyfnaf #freddyfazbearfnaf #fnaffreddyfazbear #fnaffredbear #fredbearfnaf #fivenightsatfreddys #fnaf #fnaffanart #fivenightsatfreddysfanart #fivenightsatfreddysart #art #artwork #fanart #fanartwork #fanartist #artist (at Las Vegas, Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CeVWHF0r5mU/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Once, it flew into my next-door neighbor's immaculate yard. You might not expect 'immaculate' to be the descriptor for a suburban lawn, but this man was obsessed. He mowed every second day, blew leaves off of it as soon as they fell, fertilized so much that nitrogen got into our well and we'd get awful algae blooms every time we added water to our pool. He's the only man I've ever seen trim, and not scalp, his hedges--I'm talking scissors, people. So, the rubber bullet sailed clear over his house, and to a part of the yard we couldn't see. Jack and I leave my yard, and start walking along the street in front of Fred's (the neighbor's) house. We didn't dare go stomping about his lawn for fear of some automated defense system, or mines, or his watchful eye. We just paced back and forth, hoping to spot a splotch of red among the green, Schutzstaffel blades. The ball was eventually located, not far from a recently cut tree stump. The stump was a jumpable distance from the road, so Jack and I debated the situation. Could the stump be reached? From the stump, could the ball? Who should go? It was deigned, of course, that I should. I'm forced to be the victim in my own narrative, you see. So, with a ballsy disregard for any further planning, I leap. As mentioned, the tree had been recently cut. In fact, very recently. In 'tree time,' it was so recent that I must just have leapt onto the freshly-bloodied neck of some arboreal Robespierre. The tree spirits would pale at my barbarism, no doubt. So, as I launched myself from the earth, and slid slowly from the sky toward the stump, it was a pool of still-hot, sticky, pitchy tree-blood that awaited me. In idiotically heroic fashion, I landed on all fours, plunging my hands into the amber mess like some gluttonous Vermonter. I hollered some oaths, but got on with the task at sap-covered hand. The ball in my possession, the lawn as pristine as when I sailed over it--twice, roundtrip--Jack and I hurried to my house. Energized by our run in with an unseen and terrible figure, and with the stealthy nature of our undetected operation, we were quick to get back to our moronic games. But everything I touched was sap. Glue. I glued myself to the ball, to the bat. To whatever I touched. It was a new form of discomfort and misery. I tried washing it off in the pool, my ignorance of chemistry giving me hope that the chlorine and intense algaecides would have some effect. Either I was terribly off, or chemistry is wildly useless in such life-or-death situations. John recommends that I just rub some dirt on it, but  then I'd be filthy, too. So, I try the only thing I know to be good at cleaning most anything: scalding water. Run to the sink, throw the hot handle left with a wrist, and plunge my hand into the steaming cascade. Instant regret. Jack follows me, and starts laughing as he sees me wince. But I don't retract my hands, and the assault begins. He calls me stupid, an idiot, for burning my hands. But still, they stay there. I won't back down. The pain in my eyes must have been obvious, because I recall making a big deal out of how it wasn't a big deal. Like I was tough or something. Even through the steam and running water, you can see that my hands are turning bright pink. I scrub furiously, hoping to scrape the heated pitch from my hands. To no avail. In a way, I begin to panic. At this obvious low point in my life, my mother waltzes into the kitchen, curiosity piqued by John's barrage and my probably pained voice. Jack gives her the low down, and she before waiting to hear my side, she joins the inquisition. Calls me stupid, an idiot, for scalding myself, and for continuing to do so. But still, they stay. I can't back down. Perhaps understanding the true nature of my stubborn blunder, my mom rephrases the idea: perhaps I should try some soap? I hadn't thought of soap. Her query gives me the opportunity to salvage my assailed pride. I was just waiting until the sap was warm and easier to 'soap off,' I claim. So I wait a few more moments, then nod my head as if the turkey were done and it was all we were waiting for, and reach for the Dawn. A brightly pink and raw hand reaches for it, and to my eternal chagrin, my hand sticks to the bottle. Prying it off in the sloppiest of ways, I squirt some soap into my other wounded palm, and thrust the two back into the molten water. In so doing, I emit the slightest whimper of pain, and the mirth stored behind me explodes in a shower of hideous laughter. With dripping sarcasm, my mother tells me she's proud of me, and the two of them stalk off, giggling. As soon as they're gone, I remove my hands from the lava and towel the sticky entities off, vowing never to speak of it again, and to declare my hands satisfactorily un-sticky if interrogated on the matter. Later that day, I unthinkingly high-fived Jack over some neat success, and his erupting guffaws nearly slew me.