Fly Genocide

It was late at night, and the lights in the room flickered softly I was sprawled out on my bed, immersed into a book.

A faint buzzing noise could be heard in the background, but I did not pay any particular attention to it. Its volume increased and decreased sporadically, as the source moved around the room. Occasionally, the buzzing stopped for a tad, only to resume a minute later with greater intensity.

In the back of my head, I acknowledged its presence, but I was too engrossed within the book to properly be irritated at this disturbance. And so I continued reading.

Some hours past.

I had nearly finished the book, so I put it down and began to walk around the house, nothing else pressing to do.

I entered my parents’ room after roaming around a bit. Both were lying on the ordinary queen-sized bed that occupied the room. My father had his laptop on his bent knees, and both of them were watching some entertainment show together.

My mother looked up at me, and we exchanged a few words. The words themselves I cannot remember, but it was insignificant banter relating to some random subject. Anyways, after a few words, she told me to catch a fly that had been flying around her room.

I had always enjoyed catching flies. I know it may seem like a chore to others, but to me, it is all but a game. Of course, catching them with a flyswatter is efficient, yet holds no entertainment value to it. And so I developed other ways to swat those black buzzing demons.

First, a while ago, I tried my hand at killing them with my hands. My father sometimes grabbed at the fly with one hand, swirled his arm around rapidly, and proceeded to throw the fly at the ground with all of the power he could muster. I did not want to catch flies this way, as grasping a fly inside my hand was not the most desirable situation for me.

Therefore, I had raised my arms up in a boxing stance, and had punched/smacked the flies with my bare fists. It was enjoyable at times, especially when I locked one fly into my room with me, and swung at it until it was writhing on the floor from a violent confrontation with my knuckles.

Although this may have been efficient and somewhat entertaining, it was very poor in accomplishing my goal: killing the flies. My fists were sorely inadequate to deal a destructive blow to the flies, and most flies were only dazed a little after being punched down.

So today, I wanted to try something different. Something entertaining, but able to incapacitate most flies in one swing. I understood what I needed to do. I unscrewed a plastic broomstick handle, and got down to business.

There was buzzing everywhere. Flies ran rampant throughout the house: in the living room, in the kitchen, in the rooms. I held my broomstick handle in a warrior’s stance as a wandered around the living room.

I saw a small, black streak flying lazily near the ground in my peripheral vision. My makeshift sword flashed out in a blur of white. A sharp thwack ensued, and the fly lay on the ground, unmoving. A wicked smile slowly creeped into my face. The genocide had begun.

I walked purposefully up and down the house, following flies which had somehow invaded our house. My stick of plastic whirred through the air, and more times than not a small, black insect was struck down.

It was difficult, even for me, to correctly match a flying fly with a stick scarcely an inch wide. But when I did make connection, the sharp thwack was immensely satisfying and enjoyable.

There were many grotesque details concerning the flies in this endeavor. There was a fly which had been split in half from the impact of the swing, and its front half was still alive and squirming around. Fly guts were strewn on the ground where I ground the fly with the end of my stick into the floor when the first blow did not quite kill it. My stick of justice was also messy with fly blood and guts where connection with flies were made.

Overall, there were around 8 flies that day that met their doom to my plastic broomstick of justice. The day afterwards, more than a dozen flies would be struck down by my hand. It was not a good time to be a fly.

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