If ever some kind of freak event were to occur in my life, I would never have thought this – this infiltration of God’s creation gone wrong. Like Garden of Eden wrong, Cane and Able wrong, Moses beating the water out of the rock with two strikes, wrong (which in my opinion, was the first introduction of the piñata, and yet, somehow us hispanics get credited for the Jewish creation). Although, if we, in our graciousness, hand over the copy writes to the beloved Rodney-King-on-a-string party pleaser, then in exchange the Jews should give us the Challah bread. It only seems fair. And delicious.
“But in a larger sense” (as Abe Lincoln once stated in an address to onlookers at Gettysburg), the beasts –half horse, half fly, have invaded the home of the Canales family, shredding our dignity, destroying our sense of security, plummeting our hours of sleep per night/ per unit of R.E.M. cycle. Or really, just mine.
As of two days ago, I no longer know the meaning of peace. Only the threat of war lingers in the tensions of my household. Every air vent, every screened window, every empty Lysol can poses a threat to my sanity; which I lost with my dignity, which I lost from turning myself into a paranoid fly-swatting-Lysol-spraying ninja.
Let me preface this massacre. Two days ago, I walked up the stair case to grab something from my room. While traversing the last step, a rather large black dot flashed in my peripheral: a horsefly mating with the railing in a stationary position (which might be the equivalent to their “missionary”).
Now you can imagine, since I am terrified of lady bugs once their wings start flapping like 18th century Wickens, that the mere sighting of the large, nasty aesthetics –of the veracious, man biting horsefly –created a swamp thing jungle in my pants. Also, delicious.
Naturally, I ran away like a little girl and occupied the restroom, until I had finished my business and found a fly swatter. As I walked back down the hall to the staircase, I was startled to see the fly resting on the balcony railing. It had moved, surreptitiously, as if…as if it were stalking. Now, I’m a bit neurotic, a bit OCD, a bit ridiculous at times, but this –this bug/horse like creature, neighing at me with scorn and contempt –It made me squirm with paranoia.
Whack, Whack, “Damnit, I missed it”, until another whack, smashed the thing into a deadened residue. My victory was short-lived.
Another flying black beast charged at my face, as if it were public relations for a plastic surgeon. A swing and a miss and a swing and a miss and a swing, all left me annoyed and exhausted. The creature perched upon a ledge of our cathedral ceiling mocked me.
Finally, I had it whacked faster than one of the victims in The God Father.
Now something I have learned from this experience: Two horseflies are coincidence. But, three, four, five, six and seven are a plague upon the house, like the Capulet’s, or the Egyptians who enslaved the Israelites.
That night, my family had executed a total of seven flying monsters. And of course, I overanalyzed it: Dissecting all the possible biblical or superstitious symbolism. Seven is a number that holds both good and bad meaning. There’s the superstition of seven years of bad luck whence breaking a mirror. Biblically, there were the seven days of creation, the product of forgiveness forged from multiplying the integer seven by seventy, the seven seals of Revelation and then there was the woman who bled for seven years (although, I’m not completely sure what Jesus was trying to accomplish with that one –primitive Tampax soliciting?). No, wait, she bled for 12 years. Tough break.
The following night, I stared at the television gingerly, watching the Bachelorette with a bottle of Lysol in one hand and a green latticed fly swatter in the other. My bottom occupied only a small circumference of the edge of the couch. My toes arched like talons in anticipation of premature arthritis. It was a haphazard attempt to conduct a sense of normalcy in my life, trying to follow the ol’ once you fall off the horse, get back on again adage (literally). Even when Jillian finally saw through Wes’ facade as a decent human being, and kicked him off the show –finally! –I couldn’t relish any satisfaction.
No, I had turned into a pesticidal warrior akin to Attila the Hun (minus the raping and looting of Eastern Europe), and my muscle’s tensed, eager for the next serial killing. Four flies had been bludgeoned to the death, earlier that day, and another two roamed the house at their leisure. I dubbed them “Sheep flies” to the slaughter. I think I even punched one in the face: Bare knuckle glory, which didn’t last long when I realized I had touched the nasty thing. I must have washed my hands four or five times, until I felt worthy of the cleanliness laws in the book of “Leviticus”.
Regardless of the fate of “God’s Creation” at the destruction of my hand, there is justification for casting out evil in any form. And this was a demonic force greater than the 1095 A.D Christian crusades to the holy land, Catholic priest’s masturbatory mal-practices or Subway’s meat distributor (Ew).
The crisis indefinitely caused havoc –a catalyst to the Spanish Inquisition Numero Dos. A proponent that turned the bathroom into a weapon: a self-induced gas chamber. At one point, my mother locked herself in with a fly, for a long period of time, until the stubborn insect lapsed from the toxic Lysol sprays. I had knocked on the door to offer my support, but she shushed me. And after a few final squirts of Lysol, I heard her utter,"Die" in a malicious whisper.
Of course today, there have been no signs of the intruders, even though now we have actual Raid fly spray that I bought along with some fly strip traps. Essentially, the Canales’ are prepared to crop dust the hell out of any creature that may return, chanting –to the rhythm of some early human’s mating rituals –“Lion’s and Tigers and Horseflies, will die!”