So, last night the big, boisterous, bellicose, brutish Bluebottle of Success came knocking. Unlike the other nighttime insects he refused to fly around the outside light or knock himself senseless at the door. No, he thumped on my door with his meaty legs. And, silly me, I let him in.
Reeling in, he stank of warm booze. His stiff, hairy abdomen glistened with unknown putrescence. His two wings were like shards of glass. He blinked one compound eye and a million reflections of me suddenly were wiped off the face of the Earth. (I even saw little clumps of shit clinging to his thick, bushy legs. )
Digging deep into his greasy abdomen he pulled out a sheet of immaculate white paper. One of his meaty legs languidly stroked the slick oily hairs on his bruised, blunt head. He emitted a phlegmy cough. In short, invective language, he wanted me to reel off my accomplishments. All I could think about was how big was the mound of shit this bluebottle walked over. I’m still working on it, I stammered. Not good enough for the brutish Bluebottle of Success. He wanted substantial evidence. He wanted something tangible, something juicy to pierce with his unctuous mouthparts.
I quickly tried explaining in a language I hoped he could understand. I told him that like a mosquito I had pierced skin but unlike the mosquito I was yet to taste blood. He simply snickered. It sounded like hard gall-bladder stones.
Try this then, I said. (Inside I was fluttering between composure and a sudden death-wish more like a moth than man.) I’m in the larvae stage still.
Now a big booming laugh filled the room in a pinguid miasma.
I’ still gathering like the ants, I implored.
More unctuous chortling followed by a bloated hissy fit.
I even tried being clever. I’m still rolling the shit like a scarab. I hoped he would sympathize. All I got was a sucking sound and my multiple reflections captured in his hollow eyes. He buzzed with impatience.
But I had nothing more to give.
Feeling nauseated not only by my own failure but also by his noxious odour, which was a cross between dead fish and moldy cheese, I did the next best thing. I lay prostrate on the floor and invited the Bluebottle of Success to clamber over me.
Even before his hairy, meaty, angular legs touched my horripilating skin — my wife arrived. She’d come downstairs to see who in hell I was talking to at such a late hour.
And thank god she did. Because as I was roused from my little slumber, I saw a big fat fly was sitting on my nose. With one deft swat, my wife killed it. Turning to me she said irritably, “Why do you allow such tiny irritations to rule you? All it takes is one sharp blow and they are eradicated!”
But she has always had a fine moral.