Yes, it happened!
But before we get to that, let me just tell you a very brief history of peace, tolerance, and live and let live.
In my domicile, my home, my castle that I am the King of, I’m very accepting of the fact that it’s a macrocosm and I willingly share it with other creatures that inhabit my dominion. Creepy-crawlies, spiders, silverfish, and even ants on occasion are all welcome. But what I do not tolerate in my domain are cockroaches, mosquitoes, and flies. All three are wretchedly vile, repulsive, and disgusting — not to mention, annoying as hell.
I highly value and respect my vanguard of spiders who keep watch like sentinels. I leave them alone and they earn their keep by doing their job — eating and devouring the usually lone and errant roach, skeeter, or fly.
And with this front line of defense, I seldom see the unwelcomed creatures, and that helps me govern over a happy kingdom. Granted, every now and then a few of the undesirables slip through the defenses and invade my realm. That’s to be expected. And that’s also when I assert my dominance — out comes the flyswatter. Smack/splat. I win. I rule. I reign.
Then it began…
Two days ago: While I was preparing dinner I noticed a couple of flies circling, reconnoitering my kitchen. I didn’t pay much heed, knowing that my spiders would soon capture and consume. As I served myself dinner, the flies became persistent, even daring to buzz my face and land on my meal.
Flyswatter time. Smack/splat. Got one! Couldn’t find the other — it seemed to vanish into thin air.
I sat down to eat and was buzzed again and again. Not just by one fly, or two, but at least three or four different flies took their turn dive-bombing me and my plate.
Smack/splat times three. Yet again, I could not find that last pesky one.
One day ago: I woke up to an uneventful day. No flies. That is until early evening when out of the corner of my eye I noticed movement, something out of place, unnatural. I turned to look at the sliding glass door in the living room. It shifted. It was alive. It was like someone had cast a summoning spell and opened the gates of hell — just like something out of a horror movie. It was covered with flies.
I’m not talking about five or six, or even seven flies. No, it had dozens. Pay attention to the “s”, it makes it plural. There were multiple dozens. A plague. I kid you not. I stood in awe at the spectacle as a buzzing squad of fighter flies lifted off in flight and did maneuvers, circling round and round, hovering, and practicing sorties and strafing runs while a whole division, still gathering on the glass, prepared to launch an all-out assault on… on, on who knows what? Me?
No! That’s not going to happen. Flyswatter time.
I slowly backed out of the living room and started to wonder… How did this happen? Where did they come from? And most importantly — where are my vigilant spider sentinels? I checked their posts, their home bases, their encampments — all deserted, abandoned. Their silken strands were broken, in tatters. My first line of defense is gone. What the hell?
The buzzing got louder as I made my way to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of flyswatters. It was time to rout the scourge. Time for war!
I entered the fray, disturbing their flight patterns, and was immediately attacked — swarmed from all directions by the infestation. With a flyswatter in each hand, I repeatedly struck out at the mass of invaders. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic karate-chopping my way out of a spider web, but I felt more like King Kong on the Empire State Building swatting at bi-planes. Wave after wave came at me. I was overwhelmed.
Gathering up my last bit of strength and courage, I shouted a battle cry… and a daring fly flew directly into my mouth.
Not today you little #*&@#.
I snapped my jaws shut with a crunch, and a squirt of gooey guts coated the inside of my mouth. I spit the carcass onto the battlefield as a warning to my foes. The warning did no good. The creatures continued their onslaught. For a brief moment my thoughts took me out of the battle. Why the attack on my oral cavity? Did the attacker leave its DNA in my saliva? Am I going to transform into a human/fly hybrid? Why am I thinking this sci-fi nonsense? With renewed determination, I returned to the battle.
But it was for naught. I swear I heard the flies screaming “Death from above” as they strafed me again and again. I tried to gain the upper hand, but started to falter. It was time to retreat, regroup, and formulate a new battle plan.
I withdrew to the kitchen for a much needed glass of water. I set my weapons down, poured my drink, and just as I was about to lift the glass to my parched lips, a fly landed on the rim — taunting me. He never knew what hit as I suddenly flicked him with my finger. Of course, he landed in my water — wounded. I watched him struggle with a broken wing as he tried to swim back to the rim and crawl out.
That’s not going to happen.
I placed my fingers around his little neck, squeezed tight, and held the little #*&@# under water until his tiny wings stopped flapping. As I administered the Coup de grâce a battle plan developed and became clear.
I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out my new weapon — a little-used can of bug spray.
I stormed back into the living room, charging through their front lines and was immediately overrun again, but not for long. I sprayed and sprayed, releasing a killer fog into their ranks and… not to be cliché, but within seconds they started dropping like flies. I continued spraying until not one wing buzzed.
Yeah, scorched earth. I win. I rule. I reign.
As a warning to any stray fighters, I left the bug spray on the floor in the middle of the dead and broken bodies. Then, exhausted from battle, I retired for the evening.
My retirement didn’t last long.
After getting ready for bed, I laid down, got comfortable, opened a good book, and just as I was reaching for my reading glasses…
My eyes darted around the room, looking for where the sound came from. Nothing. Then I heard the buzz again — this time it was near my ear. I quickly rolled and retreated, holding my book as a weapon. Nothing.
I spun around. Nothing. I searched the room. Nothing. Everything was quiet. I waited.
I turned and there it was. One lone fly. Sitting on my glasses and looking directly at me while rubbing its front legs together — daring me. Before I could decide what to do, the insect flew out of the bedroom and into the dark hallway. I watched to see if it would return — it didn’t. So I settled in to read my book. After a while, I set the book down, turned off the light and closed my eyes.
My eyes opened to darkness.
Stealthily I reached over and turned the light on. There was not one, but two flies circling above my bed, preparing for a sneak attack on me. As soon as the light illuminated the room, they kamikazied me one after the other.
But I was quick. I smacked the first suicidal fly like a batter hitting a fly ball (pun intended) deep into left field and over the fence. Except there was no fence — just my bedroom wall that the fly slammed into before leaving a trail of blood as it slid down. And to drive the point home, I rolled out of bed and squished the dead flyer with the ball of my foot. Yes, I had to wash the mashed remains off afterwards, but I was making a definitive point to the second fly.
The point didn’t register. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Like a crazed creature the fly circled the room, gaining speed with each pass. It then flew to the ceiling and with as much speed as it could muster, tucked in its wings and shot toward me faster than an air to surface missile.
Like Mr. Miyagi I lashed out and actually caught it in my fist. My mortal enemy was as surprised as I was. It buzzed wildly in my closed hand. What now? At this point I decided there would be no quarter given. I would take no prisoners and show now mercy. I viciously shook my hand like a soda can until I could feel the creature’s broken and lifeless body tumbling inside my fist. Then to add insult to injury, I pitched it against the wall where it stuck with a splatter of flyspeck before slowly sliding to the floor to join its dead brethren.
I turned the light off, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. Victorious.
Today: I woke up to a quiet home, but spied a few war-weary stragglers flying aimlessly about. Quietly. No buzzing. Not taking any chances, I emptied the bug spray on them. They quickly united with their kin, dead on the floor.
I removed the departed from the battlefield, cleaned up the gore, scrubbed down the stains, and then took a moment to reflect on the war as I sat down to write this tale.
Lon Casler Bixby is a professional photographer and published author in various genres: Fiction, Poetry, Humor, Photography, & Comic Books.
See his writing here — www.amazon.com/author/loncaslerbixby/.