I've only ever driven by Beehunter, but there's little else to tell of it than what a glimpse at eighty miles per hour will reveal.

On State Road 67, between Indianapolis and Vincennes, amid countless rows of corn and beans, Beehunter sits like a grain of sand on the trunk of a fallen tree. Without paying much attention, you can pass it by, noticing only the rapid bumps as your car speeds over railroad tracks. If you happened to see the slim green sign that says BEEHUNTER, you might wonder where the rest of the town is, for there are no side roads meandering through the corn. Not even a dirt track. There is a gravel driveway that leads up to a grayish house like an overgrown shack. Just beyond, there is a ranch house in better condition with an old satellite dish the size of a VolksWagen in the yard. There are a number of cars parked or littered about. Few look to be merely retired from motoring and put out to pasture, and few others look to be dead already, half-harvested for organs. Some of the others must work. Once upon a time, a semi rested there, but now that dragon has flown. Across the tracks, Beehunter ends. You will see the back of the sign that greets people coming the other way, and the road goes ever on.

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