Man Versus Fly by Richard Frohm |
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.
Then it came back to me exactly as pain spread through my back. I had tripped on Jake’s toys. 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.
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.
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.
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!”
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. 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.
Just as people that are dying say their lives flash before them.
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.
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. 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. 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. “Papa, the fly is still trapped in your study. Jake is standing guard.” “Thanks, Madi.” I answered. 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. Life was back to normal. 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.”
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Richard Frohm
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