the flyswatter

A slight buzz flits by his ear just as he closes the microwave. He quickly turns to the noise and, out of the corner of his eye, catches the movement of a giant black fly darting around the kitchen. He turns back to the microwave, punching in numbers, instinctively flicking away the pest whenever it comes near. But in a quick second, the fly returns with full force, zooming around his head like a Chaser in a Quidditch match.

This means war.

He grabs the nearest weapon: a bright red flyswatter, ready for action. He scans the air for any sight of the target. He listens for any buzzing, any swift change in the wind. Sensing his enemy to the left, he whips his head around, crouching low behind the kitchen island. Stealthily, he crawls around the corner, keeping his eyes on the air above him. He realizes with a curse that his enemy has an aerial advantage. He would have to be on extra guard for this battle.

He follows the loud buzzing with both ears and eyes on guard. He can hear it getting closer and closer, lowering itself, ready to attack. And suddenly, the noise stops; the kitchen is blanketed in an ominous silence.

Suspicious, he slowly inches himself up towards the counter, looking over the edge, only to find ... He was face to face with the fly itself. It's giant red eyes glare at him; its furry tongue unwinding itself, taunting him, daring him to take a swing. At such an angle, he realizes the fly is actually a deep metallic green. Phaenicia sericata. Looking closer, he cringes as he sees his distorted, crimson reflection, several times over, staring back. Quietly, he raises his arm and with all his might, brings the flyswatter crashing down on the countertop.

The silence persists.

Lifting the flyswatter -- expecting the gore of a battle's aftermath, the splayed guts of his foe flattened against the cold granite -- he finds nothing. A faint buzz travels over him.

With an ugly scowl on his lip, he stands, frantically searching for the fly. Every buzz sends him into a whirl of panic, every flitting movement sending spasms down his arm. He grips the flyswatter tighter, refusing to give in.

One buzz here, then suddenly over there, above him, behind him. There is more than one fly, he thought, there has to be. He began swinging his flyswatter around like a madman, believing himself to be engulfed in a swarm. The flyswatter swishes through the air, claiming phantom fly lives one after the next. And then - contact.

With a resounding smack, the flyswatter slams into the counter. This time, he stops swinging. He feels something different about this attack. Inching closer towards the counter, he notices the shimmer of a broken wing lying a few centimeters from the swatter. He peels the flyswatter away, pulling up the pancaked remains of the fly. A small black hole in the center of the swatter. Annihilated.

With a malicious laugh, he mercilessly scrapes away the crushed corpse, reveling in the glory of his victory. He slams the trash lid closed just as the microwave begins to beep in monotonous applause.