Lord of the Flies

As I sat down to eat my baked potato last night, a fly fell on my head. I brushed it off and continued eating. Twenty seconds later, a fly fell on my arm. Could it be the same fly? I glanced at the ceiling and, much to my chagrine, saw that it was covered with a swarm of little, black flies! Disgusting! I ran to make sure all the windows were tightly sealed, then looked in my bedroom - my bed and the ceiling were carpeted with flies. I stood perplexed for a moment, wondering what to do. Do I leave the flies and let them die on their own time, or do I spray them with super fly-killing poison and burn a few brain cells of my own at the same time? The thought of sharing my bed with egg-laying flies led me to choose the poison approach. I sprayed until there was a fog of chemicals clouding my apartment. The flies died. They dropped like . . . flies. I vacuumed them up, then sprayed some more, then vacuumed them up, and then sprayed some more. Two hours later, flies that had hidden from the massacre were still appearing. I sprayed and vacuumed well into the night - I had to be certain that they wouldn't be falling on me in my sleep. Finally, I went to bed, but guess what I dreamed about? That's right, flies.