Finnegan McFly wanted to scream every time somebody tried to swat him. Did they have any idea of the good he did for them? “Don’t bite the hand that cleans up after you,” he would have said if he could have said it loud enough to be heard. As it was, his voice was tinny and largely inaudible. Besides, he could have talked until he was blue in the face, which he was all the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t have made a dent.
If it wasn’t for him everybody would be knee deep in shit in no time. That they weren’t was because flies laid their eggs on feces, rotting flesh, and decaying fruit. That way the maggots who hatched would have something to eat the instant they were born. If there were no maggots every toilet in the world would soon be plugged up and stay plugged up.
He could have tried reasoning with those who came after him with fly swatter in hand, but he doubted whether that would have done any good. Most people were unreasonable. They had their own reasons for doing what they did. He didn’t pretend to be able to fathom the reasons. It was like the creepazola who chopped off the girl’s arm last fall. He didn’t have to do it. He wanted to do it. Why he wanted to do it was beyond Finnegan’s comprehension.
He hadn’t seen it happen, of course, since his natural life span was barely one month. He heard about it through the grapevine. That was the way the fly news network worked. His home grounds were Cape Turner, less than a mile up from Murphy’s Cove. The hatchet job had gotten everybody in his neck of the woods buzzing with the news.
Finnegan thought the RCMP might enlist him in their investigation, but they didn’t. Flies had been employed in criminal cases in China for more than 700 years. By studying larval stages at a crime scene, forensics could estimate the time of a death. Finnegan was a flesh fly and knew all about carcasses.
Those who tried to kill him always got off with attempted murder. It was a slap on the wrist. They had not gotten him, yet. He was much faster than them. Their brains could process around 60 images a second. His brain could process around 250 images a second. He had compound eyes and could see all around himself all at once, including behind him. “They call themselves the master race,” Finnegan muttered. “Bah!”
He knew his buzzing could be annoying. He didn’t always enjoy fly parties when there were too many of them and the buzzing grew to a crescendo. That was when he usually took his drink and himself to the side for some peace and quiet. Even so, he never reflexively tried to kill whoever was buzzing, not even a mosquito.
Finnegan knew hardly anybody liked a fly landing on them. He got that. His fuzzy legs could be ticklish. He made it a point to avoid human beings. He couldn’t always help himself, however. He just had to land on them sometimes to see if there was anything worth eating. He taste tested with his legs.
Eating was Floyd’s number one priority. It was the love of his life. The only other priority he had was sex, but that was a sometime thing he did more out of necessity than desire. When it came time for the love bug he unleashed his love spot. The love spot was on the front of his head near his eyes. It was how he stayed locked onto potential mates during aerial pursuit. He always got his girl.
The creepazola with the hand axe had bashed in his girl’s head and chopped off her arm. Finnegan had gotten some of her arm. It wasn’t much, but there was always more than less of that to be had. In the meantime, he was so hungry he could eat a horse. He was airborne in no time flat and eyeballing high and wide for grub.