I squished a fly once, with a huge, what’s that word— swatter. Its guts got stuck to the wall, a wing or a limb poking through the holes of my utensil. No more buzzing, no more tapping— soft tapping on my window, and certainly no more flapping wings; I picked those off the swatter—flicked them into the air, nope, they don’t work anymore.
Moment of silence as I scrape the entrails away (gross), they don’t smell; but why does puke green ooze from their wounds – radio-active waste eating flies, soon to be larger than skyscrapers, wing-span—covering the skyline. Hovering in front of the sun; taking subtle revenge for lost family members, past transgressions where – the once dominant species – set fire to each limb and base of the wings; shriveling appendages and the smell of burnt matches.
I should start building a really ginormous fly swatter.