DIE, FLIES, DIE!!

Flies suck.  Not in a mosquito way, nor in a greenhead or deer fly or horse fly or tick kind of way, either.  Flies just suck at life in general.

I have my door open every so often today: sit outside, put the recycling into the bin, check the mail... That kind of stuff.  Somehow I get a fly into the house.  I chase that sucker down and knock him clear out of the air.  (I don't know why, but I take sick satisfaction in whacking the fly dead out of thin air with the swatter.)

Before the fly dies, though,  it radios for reinforcements because I get another fly into the house.  I commit that fly to the same fate as the first fly, but this one takes more effort.  I finally chase it into the bathroom, close the door behind me, and start swinging the swatter around like a novice t-ball player.  Eventually, the fly falls to the tile floor near the toilet, and I am happy once again.

When my son comes home for dinner, another fly gets into the house.  He tries swatting at it, but this sucker is fast.  Honestly, it is the fastest damn fly I have ever encountered.  I run upstairs to grab the back-up fly swatter, and, the next thing we know, we are double-teaming that bastard.

This is when fly #4 appears.  The two flies, #3 and #4, are now zooming like kamikaze pilots.  I start whacking at the light bulbs, and my son yells at me, "You're going to break the lamp!"

Meanwhile, I am yelling at the flies, "DIE!  DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

We finally manage to kill both flies, but not before my son wounds the autumn wreath hanging on the inside of the back door (which shouldn't be there anyway because it's not autumn).  My son gets one fly out of thin air in the kitchen, and it lands on the floor under the counter near the sink.  I stalk the last one for a while longer and eventually kill it near the den.

Whew.  It has been a battle, but .... sonofabitch!  There's a fifth fly.  My son has long-since retired from fly-swatting, so I pick up both swatters and start madly flailing away at the damn thing.  For a solid ninety seconds, the only sounds in the house are the swishing and thwacking of the two fly swatters and my son's video game in the living room, where he has decided it is safer than being near his crazy-ass mother who will smack anything that comes near.

Suddenly, I corner that little fucker fly in the back hall, where I have closed off the doorways.  There's no escape.  The fly is fast, but I am faster.  It takes me five solid swipes with both swatters.  If these were ceremonial swords, I'd have lopped off more heads than Attila the Hun by now.  The fly, thoroughly smooshed, falls gracelessly to the floor.

Thankfully, I am able to retire the swatters for the evening.  I am completely spent from the aerobic exercise, so I declare that no fly may enter or exit the house ever again.