The Fly.
The following is a dramaticized recant of an ongoing power struggle for dominance and sanity that occurred last night. Forgive the third person (makes it more dramatic):
Weary. Bound and jaded by the task he must keep, Bobbo arrives at his domicile, broken by the full shift he had to fulfill at the local market. Keys through the lock, with a quick twist, the door opened to his studio apartment. It was cozy, but inviting for our weary retail warrior. To someone else, it was just an apartment. But for Bobbo, this was what he called home.
Changing out of his uniform into more comfortable nocturnal clothes, Bobbo engaged in some particularly intellectual conversation with some acquaintances through use of the internet and instant messaging. All was seemingly quiet, sans for the click clack of the keyboard getting tapped upon and the sounds of 311 coming through the CD player on the dresser. Baseball Tonight flickered mutely on the TV, but he could still read what the analysts said thanks to the subtitles. It seemed like a perfect night. When suddenly...
An intruder.
A marauder from the outside invaded the private setting of the night. It first caught Bobbo's attention at 10:00. While taking a sip of his delicious fruit punch Gatorade, it floated along his hand, the wind from the furious beat of it's wings patted against Bobbo's fingers. He watched as the invader scurried off, screaming his battle cry.
"Bzzt".
Bobbo turned his attention back to the computer, with a thought. "Just a pesky fly". Far from his mind is the unrest and insanity this "pesky fly" would produce.
After an hour of the bug's incesant buggery, Bobbo decided the fly had worn out his welcome. He stood up from in front of the computer, shoe readily in hand. How cruel fate is, but the flying jerk sealed it's fate the moment it entered. A couple swats, and the bug proved to be more of a formidable foe than Bobbo had anticipated. It retreated into the kitchen after the assault. Bobbo returned to his seat, unmotivated to chase the winged bastard into the kitchen. In the back of his mind, he hoped the uninvited slut found it's way to the open window.
Unfortunately, that was not the case. He reentered the room, buzzing around Bobbo's head before landing on his knee. It gave a slight buzz before flying off. At this point, Bobbo became fluent in the fly's language. And he took that slight buzz as a mock, as to say "Haha. I'm still here, fatty!". This did not sit well with the King. He stood up quickly and charged at the fly, swinging whatever he could grab at it. At one moment, Bobbo stood still, trying to locate the fly. He saw it flying just as it landed on a small space on the wall next to the dresser. Slowly and stealthily, he picked up a nearby notebook. As soon as he gripped it, he heaved it toward the fly on the wall. The notebook hit the direct area of the fly. Bobbo thought he had found victory over the stranger in his home.
It being past midnight, Bobbo decided to turn in for the evening. He shut off the overhead light, pulled out his futon, and spread out his blanket. The last song on his Led Zeppelin CD had just ended, leaving silence in the air. As soon as he became comfortable, he heard it. The familiar sound. The unwelcome sound. The sound of fury.
"Bzzt."
The sound was soft and subtle, but pounded against Bobbo's mind like a jackhammer. His eyes snapped open. His blood heated with fury. In one motion, he rocked foward from the futon and flicked the lightswitch on. His teeth grinded as he tried to locate the flying fucker. Fists clenched, reaching for his shoe, he located the bugger flapping around the dome of the overhead light. Bobbo furiously swiped at it, nearly breaking the dome. After losing sight of his target again, he found him sitting on the blinds to his window. And as peculiar as it sounds, Bobbo felt like it was staring into his soul, challenging him.
The Showdown.
Not unlike a sunrise shootout of the Old West. Bobbo gazed at the fly, sitting and waiting on the blinds. It was a test of wits and quickness. Who would be first, a lethal blow by Bobbo or a quick buzzing off by the Fly? The latter would only fill Bobbo with more rage, promptly sending him into a state of temporary insanity. How could he let a pissant intruder enter his domain and infest his habitat so long? He must be stopped here.
In one fluid motion, Bobbo threw both his shoe and the blue notebook toward the window. The shoe missed the fly. However, in an attempt to escape the barrage, the fly flew directly into the path of the notebook.
Crushed against the window, the dead corpse of the black fly fell onto the windowsill. Bobbo sighed, deeply relieved that the intruder finally got what he deserved. Assured his kingdom was free of invaders, Bobbo turned the light off and drifted off to a calm sleep. Lest Apartment #1 come under attack again by the tiny six-legged winged plagues, Bobbo, master of his domain, shall be ready with shoe and notebook in hand.
The End.
The preceding was based on a true story.
Weary. Bound and jaded by the task he must keep, Bobbo arrives at his domicile, broken by the full shift he had to fulfill at the local market. Keys through the lock, with a quick twist, the door opened to his studio apartment. It was cozy, but inviting for our weary retail warrior. To someone else, it was just an apartment. But for Bobbo, this was what he called home.
Changing out of his uniform into more comfortable nocturnal clothes, Bobbo engaged in some particularly intellectual conversation with some acquaintances through use of the internet and instant messaging. All was seemingly quiet, sans for the click clack of the keyboard getting tapped upon and the sounds of 311 coming through the CD player on the dresser. Baseball Tonight flickered mutely on the TV, but he could still read what the analysts said thanks to the subtitles. It seemed like a perfect night. When suddenly...
An intruder.
A marauder from the outside invaded the private setting of the night. It first caught Bobbo's attention at 10:00. While taking a sip of his delicious fruit punch Gatorade, it floated along his hand, the wind from the furious beat of it's wings patted against Bobbo's fingers. He watched as the invader scurried off, screaming his battle cry.
"Bzzt".
Bobbo turned his attention back to the computer, with a thought. "Just a pesky fly". Far from his mind is the unrest and insanity this "pesky fly" would produce.
After an hour of the bug's incesant buggery, Bobbo decided the fly had worn out his welcome. He stood up from in front of the computer, shoe readily in hand. How cruel fate is, but the flying jerk sealed it's fate the moment it entered. A couple swats, and the bug proved to be more of a formidable foe than Bobbo had anticipated. It retreated into the kitchen after the assault. Bobbo returned to his seat, unmotivated to chase the winged bastard into the kitchen. In the back of his mind, he hoped the uninvited slut found it's way to the open window.
Unfortunately, that was not the case. He reentered the room, buzzing around Bobbo's head before landing on his knee. It gave a slight buzz before flying off. At this point, Bobbo became fluent in the fly's language. And he took that slight buzz as a mock, as to say "Haha. I'm still here, fatty!". This did not sit well with the King. He stood up quickly and charged at the fly, swinging whatever he could grab at it. At one moment, Bobbo stood still, trying to locate the fly. He saw it flying just as it landed on a small space on the wall next to the dresser. Slowly and stealthily, he picked up a nearby notebook. As soon as he gripped it, he heaved it toward the fly on the wall. The notebook hit the direct area of the fly. Bobbo thought he had found victory over the stranger in his home.
It being past midnight, Bobbo decided to turn in for the evening. He shut off the overhead light, pulled out his futon, and spread out his blanket. The last song on his Led Zeppelin CD had just ended, leaving silence in the air. As soon as he became comfortable, he heard it. The familiar sound. The unwelcome sound. The sound of fury.
"Bzzt."
The sound was soft and subtle, but pounded against Bobbo's mind like a jackhammer. His eyes snapped open. His blood heated with fury. In one motion, he rocked foward from the futon and flicked the lightswitch on. His teeth grinded as he tried to locate the flying fucker. Fists clenched, reaching for his shoe, he located the bugger flapping around the dome of the overhead light. Bobbo furiously swiped at it, nearly breaking the dome. After losing sight of his target again, he found him sitting on the blinds to his window. And as peculiar as it sounds, Bobbo felt like it was staring into his soul, challenging him.
The Showdown.
Not unlike a sunrise shootout of the Old West. Bobbo gazed at the fly, sitting and waiting on the blinds. It was a test of wits and quickness. Who would be first, a lethal blow by Bobbo or a quick buzzing off by the Fly? The latter would only fill Bobbo with more rage, promptly sending him into a state of temporary insanity. How could he let a pissant intruder enter his domain and infest his habitat so long? He must be stopped here.
In one fluid motion, Bobbo threw both his shoe and the blue notebook toward the window. The shoe missed the fly. However, in an attempt to escape the barrage, the fly flew directly into the path of the notebook.
Crushed against the window, the dead corpse of the black fly fell onto the windowsill. Bobbo sighed, deeply relieved that the intruder finally got what he deserved. Assured his kingdom was free of invaders, Bobbo turned the light off and drifted off to a calm sleep. Lest Apartment #1 come under attack again by the tiny six-legged winged plagues, Bobbo, master of his domain, shall be ready with shoe and notebook in hand.
The End.
The preceding was based on a true story.