The insect can be 1 inch long and looks like a triangular spaceship. Although I realize it’s just some kind of nasty fly, I know it’s something much more evil. And it’s out to get me. It knows me by sight. Who knows — maybe even by fly-smell or some other fly-sense only another fly could appreciate.
Let me digress.
It all started one morning about a week ago while drinking a cup of coffee on the deck. It was a cold and colorless dawn, so cold that nearby ducks roosted with their heads tucked underneath their wing feathers; cold enough for that weird-looking, abnormally large mutant fly to squat on the top deck railing, waiting for a swatch of sunshine to warm up its hairy body to takeoff temperature; so cold in fact, that the stupid fly couldn’t even move while I mercilessly positioned my cocked finger just so. With a powerful flipping motion I flicked the insect over the edge of the deck.
“Buzz off,” I glowered in my best Terminator voice.
The fly’s dark silhouette spiraled all the way out to the lake, where it dropped down until it merged with a singularly reflected “PLIP” that swelled into tiny, expanding concentric circles. Instantly, the fly struggled toward the nearby bank — a stupid move on the fly’s part: miniscule distress vibrations drummed the surface. I waited for a hungry bass to happen by, and for a moment even thought about retrieving the fly and using it for an enticing bait. But, by the time I had finished my cup of coffee, the fly had made its way to the relative safety of a sunny, shoreline rock. The fly was lucky. It rubbed its raspy fly-paws together and angled its wings toward the sun for warmth.
It stared at me for a very long time. Unbeknownst to me — during this odd, recuperative process — the fly was burning my compound image deeply into the this-is-my-enemy area of its gritty little fly-brain. . .