Member-only story
DEATH TO ALL FLIES
I Am a Trained Assassin
Hands of lightning, reflexes of a cat
A small fly flew by my nose while I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I clapped my hands, hoping that the loud noise would stun or kill him. This is a little known method, but it works well with small flies. The big ones will only buzz you again and laugh.
My clap did momentarily cause this fly to fall to the counter, but he quickly recovered and flew off before I could administer a fatal blow. Damn, he was quick, and his small size made it hard to follow him.
They say of some, “He wouldn’t hurt a fly!” They’d never say it of me. I murder flies on sight, with my hands, a book, a towel, whatever I have to use.
I attribute my viciousness to my French, Norse, and Welsh ancestry. The Norsemen’s fury is fully documented on TV, the dispassionate coldness of the British is well represented by James Bond, and the Welsh language plainly would encourage violence, or as they would incomprehensibly mumble, annog trais.
I am trusting Google for this translation. Apple does not consider Welsh worth translating, which may be wise. Consider the Welsh place name “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch”. Even Google gives up on that.
