The thing is, they don’t actually kill you—not right away. They ensnare you in a sticky trap. Maybe only your left foot is caught, but caught it is, and in your jerking motions to disentangle, you not only make it worse, but you herald a giant, eight-eyed monster, rushing in quick as lightening. From where?
Before you know it you’re hit hard from behind, and spinning, wildly, woven tighter and tighter until you can just barely breathe. But breathe you do. Cruel. For now you are being carted off to some back alley crevice for no doubt more torture. You continue to jerk your arm muscles, futilely. They remain pinned to your sides as hopelessly as when your older brother would sit on you, hold you down, and merely threaten you with aggressive tickling, sending urine shooting down your pants.
Only peeing yourself is the least of your worries now. The end is frighteningly near. As you gasp and are about to attempt another, sadly weaker, wrenching—she is upon you.
Now, if I had cleaned my bedroom windowsill, none of this fascinating and harrowing scene would be visible to me. And, too, what is so bad about one less fly in the world?