Did you ever have one of those days where you should have just stayed in bed?

Well, I did.

We had our three grandchildren visiting for the weekend.

Bright and early, the three amigos came into our bedroom and pounced on our bed. Shouting, “Nana, it’s time for breakfast.”

My wife always seems to know the right thing to say.

“Why I believe papa was going to make his famous apple pancakes.”

To which there was a loud roar. “Wake up papa.”

I rolled out of bed and with the three musketeers following close behind. I headed to the kitchen. Naturally, all three wanted to help. Since I did not feel like cleaning the entire kitchen. I told Madi, the oldest at ten, to set the table. Jake, eight and Luke three were told to sit at the table. It would only take papa a few minutes.

I began cutting up the apples and started on the pancake mix.

Still half asleep and taking my first sips of coffee. I was jolted back to reality by the shouts of my grandchildren.

“Papa, there is a huge fly on the butter.” screamed Madi.

With a folded newspaper in hand, I went over to the table with a take no prisoners intent. Yep, it was a huge horse fly. They are ten times bigger than a normal fly. Naturally, it took off as I approached. I got a few swings at the little bugger.

This apparently upset Mr. Fly, who then started buzzing around and around my head. I began swinging at him like a madman which the kids found rather funny.

 Just when I thought it was safe.  I heard the roar once more coming from behind me. I turned just in time as this bomber size fly dove at me and whizzed repeatedly around my head before zooming off.

I had not recovered from the first attacks. When it returned, heading directly at my head. I stepped backwards to avoid a collision and tripped on a something on the floor. No doubt one of my grandson’s toys. Jake constantly left them out when he was over. Although, at this point, it didn’t matter. I was falling backwards, landing flat on my back; the pain was instant. Adding insult to injury, that damn fly buzzed around my head, taunting me!

I shouted “I am going to kill you damn fly!”
Madi shouted. “Papa, swore. You have to put a dollar in the swear jar.”
Standing over me were my grandchildren. Madison, age ten and Jake and her brother, seven.

Then it came back to me exactly as pain spread through my back. I had tripped on Jake’s toys.
“Jake, didn’t papa tell you to pick up all of your toys last night?”
“Yes, papa and I did.”
“Then what is on the floor?”
Madi laughed. “Papa, it’s your boots. Don’t you remember? Nana told you to pick them up.”
I wasn’t sure what was worse: the pain or having my grandchildren laughing at me?

 I still had not had my coffee. Trying to get up was a struggle. Madi and Jake had to help their poor old papa. I finally got all the way up, when straight out from the bedroom hallway that damn fly flew directly at my head again.

I reached down and grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. As he flew past, I swung the magazine with all the strength I had. I missed him, but not Denise’s granite cross from Kenmare, Ireland. As it was airborne, all I could think of was Denise will kill me. It hit the brick on the floor and shattered into a million pieces. Before I could even move, the fly buzzed past me.
I shouted at him. “You're the devil himself.”

It was surely Satan. He was there on behalf of Denise. I had been spending a lot of time at Twomey’s pub and neglecting my lovely bride and the work that needed to be done around the house.


 Walking stealth fully into the living room with my eye locked on the fly. Getting closer, and closer, until I stood over him just as I was ready to strike, he flew up towards me. I swung with all of my strength, missing him and knocking my wife’s porcelain Budda onto the floor, shattering it. I knew I was in big trouble. It was a gift from her sister. Surely I got him?
“No.” Just to piss me off, the little son of a gun buzzed my head..

Well, at that point in my morning, I had not had my coffee, tripped on my own boots, hurt my back, broke a cross and Budda himself. Yet the damn fly still lived. My wife’s hippy sister was always telling me to breathe slowly when I get angry.
I thought, I am pretty mad right now. So, I tried it,

Well, let me tell you, it didn’t work.

As I headed into the kitchen followed by my entourage all wanting to eat followed by three chocolate labs. It was lucky I actually made it into the kitchen. Did I mention the damn fly? He buzzed over my head all the way. What a sight it must have been. Three grandkids all fighting to get into the kitchen for breakfast, followed by three labs all jockeying for position.

Finally, I headed for the coffeepot. I got the filter out and opened the jar of coffee. Oh, the glorious scent of freshly ground coffee filled my senses. For a moment, calm had returned to me.

As I was adding coffee to the filter, still in coffee heaven,the devil himself returned. He flew around and around my head. The buzzing sound seemed to grow louder and louder with each pass.

I just knew he was taunting me.

By now I was boiling mad. Anger filled my body once more. My only thought was death to the fly. I was going to get the little bastard even if it kills me. I made it over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. It was eerily quiet. Except for the crying voices of my grandchildren wanting pancakes. Can’t forget my furry kids. I turned to see all three sitting, each with a bowl in their mouths. I had the kids feed them. While I started mixing the pancake mix. I could not help but notice there was no buzzing. My first thought was the little devil was plotting his next move against me. I just knew it.

The pancake mix was ready. I poured some into the frying pan.  While I was watching the pancakes. Jake came up and tugged on my shirt.

In a very quiet voice, he said; “Papa, don’t look, but the fly is on the counter next to the pancake mix.”

I glanced over my shoulder and there he was, just staring at me.

Very, very carefully, I took the spatula and in one quick motion struck the pancake mix bowl, sending it crashing to the floor, spreading pancake mix all over the cabinets, the floor and yes, all over Doolin and Kerry.

That was it, the last straw.

 My face must have looked like a cartoon character. Jake, Madi and Luke all had terrified looks on their little faces.

I shouted. “This is war! You are going to die fly.”

He flew towards our spare rooms, with me and my metal spatula in hot pursuit. To my joy, he flew into our small spare room with me right behind him. I closed the door and shouted, “Devil, you are going to die!”

I looked around and found him. There he was, sitting on the corner post for our four-post bed. Buzzing away to his heart’s content.

One important thing you need to know is this was not just any ordinary 4 post bed. It was Denise’s great, great grandmother's and worth a small fortune.
I crept closer and closer until I was within striking distance to kill the little devil. Just when I was ready to swing the spatula, the little monster moved a little higher up the pole. I kept telling myself, “Patience Richard, patience. Don’t let his never-ending taunting get to you.”

With great restraint, I waited for that perfect moment. Finally, it came. I wound up and with the swing that would make any major league baseball player proud. I let it rip.

One slight problem. As I swung with all the power in my 285 pound body, he flew off the post, and me! Well, my large body fell against the corner post, snapping it in half as well as my nose. The worse was to come. After breaking the post with my face, I continued towards the bed.

Just as people that are dying say their lives flash before them.

Well, I saw mine. It was my five foot three, Bronx born wife.

As I hit the bed, the bed frame broke crashing with me to the floor, busting the other three corner posts off the frame. Sending them inward. One after the other, they fell. As if under the devil's power, each hit the back of my head.
As I tried to sit up, I felt a severe pain. It wasn’t the pain from my broken nose, nor my head and back. It was the pain Denise was going to inflict on me when she sees the bed, the large dark red bloodstain on her two hundred-year-old family quilt.

Now common sense would say, “Give up.” Not me. Not good old Richard. I was more determined than ever to kill that little monster. I owed it to Denise and her family.
 

At least I had the little demon trapped in a ten-by-ten room. I looked around and there he was, at the door.
With blood running down my face, my head throbbing and my back feeling like it was on fire. I smiled at him and with my best Dirty Harry voice said. “Well, punk, do you feel lucky? Looks like it’s time for you to go to hell.”
Precisely at that moment, the door opens and Satan takes off. “Who the hell opened the door?” There were my two grandchildren. In unison, they shouted.
“Papa is in trouble.”

I was ready to explode over that damn fly, but looking at those little cherub faces. How could I be angry?
“We’re starving papa. Can we have pancakes? Can we?”
How could I say “no” to those little ones?

In the kitchen, it was quiet. No sign of the little devil. I knew the little demon was somewhere in our house waiting for me. While the kids were talking, I focused my mind on ways to take out the fly.

I kept hearing papa; “we’re trying to talk to you.”

I did my best to listen, but the only thing on my mind was the damn fly.
Suddenly, I heard Jake shouting like a wild man. “Papa, I locked the fly in the small bedroom.”

That was it! No more Mr. Nice Guy. This war was ending, and I would be VICTORIOUS. My brain was running a hundred miles a minute with ideas. Then I realized I had a full can of Raid in the garage.
Oh yah! It was for wasps, but I am sure it would kill a fly. Besides, it had a spray range of twenty feet. I would knock that fly out of the air just like Maverick taking out those Russian Migs in Top Gun.
This was going to be the final battle. Winner takes all, one survivor. One way or the other, Mr. Fly was going to die.
I told the kids to keep your eyes on the fly. Papa was going to end his free ride. In the garage I grabbed the Raid Ultimate Wasp Killer. It was so dangerous, Raid recommended users wear gloves, protective glasses, and a mask. It was for outdoor use only.
I painfully changed into my torn and grease covered mechanic’s overalls. I couldn’t find my gloves, so I took Denise’s hot pink garden gloves, my motorcycle goggles, and my silver motorcycle helmet. I wasn’t sure what hurt more: my back, my nose or my head. You know what? it did not matter. The anger that filled my body overruled the pain.

Before I went into the house. I couldn’t help but look at my reflection in my truck’s side mirror. My first thought was, “awesome.” I will be a regular superhero to the grandkids.
When I walked in, Madi was waiting.

 “Papa, the fly is still trapped in your study. Jake is standing guard.”

“Thanks, Madi.” I answered.


Alright, by now most guys would do the smart thing and surrender. Not me! No way, no how. I was even more determined.

When I walked into the kitchen, there was Denise sitting at the kitchen table. If looks could kill. I was dead, a thousand times. She just sat there, staring at the counter, cabinets all covered with dried pancake batter. That Denise did not utter a word made me realize after I kill the fly, she was going to kill me.

Like a soldier in combat. I could not worry about my wife. I had a mission to carry out. One of us would not survive to see another day.

I made my way to my study. Before entering, I adjusted my googles, my mask, my gloves and uncapped the Raid. I was ready.

Entering the room, I scanned from left to right. There, sitting on top of my typewriter, was the monster. I could hear him buzzing. I just knew he was taunting me.

 Saying “come on human. Give it your best shot.”

What would happen over the next five minutes could only be described as total warfare. He flew at me, around me, and between my legs. I nailed him several times. Nothing seemed to stop him. He just would not die.

 Now my room, on the other hand. The desk, the bookcases, the walls and the beige carpet were covered by white foamy raid. I had emptied the can.

Yet, he lived.

The door opened and I heard the words that has terrified me for all thirty years of marriage. Denise shouting: “Richard George”.

 After that, my mind went blank. I didn’t hear a word. Her mouth foaming with little pieces of spit flying out of it. In her right hand was a tennis racket pan. I prayed she would not hit me with it.

What happened next could only be described as amazing.

I heard the buzz of the little devil.

Next thing I see is the blur of the frying pan coming directly at my head. I ducked and at the same time saw the fly. One swing of the tennis racket she hit Satan so hard he flew twenty feet, hitting the wall and dropping to the floor. I rushed over to check on him. There he lay on his back. I picked up his dead little body and brought it to the garbage. I opened the lid for the garbage can and dropped him in and tightly closed the lid.
“Goodbye, my old enemy. It was a good, hard and clean fight.”

Life was back to normal.
 
Until I heard words that made me shutter.
“Papa, when I put the trash in the garbage can the fly flew out.”
“That’s alright Jake.”
 

I started for the garage to suit up again. When I heard my wife’s stern voice. “Richard George, do not even think about it.”

Standing next to me was Jake.

“Papa, I thought you ran the show.”

Before I could answer. My dear wife informed him.

“Only when I let him.”