BZZZZTTT—SMACK!!
“Ha!” I exclaimed. I examined the goo stuck to
my swatter with satisfaction. And disgust. And pride.
Another one bites the plastic.
Quickly searching the skies for more bugsign, I
ducked into the bushed, under cover. The brown-orange
of my hunting-wear blended easily with the foliage,
disguising me. With the ease of long practice, I used
the blade of my kashan Tribal Long Knife to slide the
slime that was once a dragon-fly into my #3 bag. Good
eatin’, those suckers.
It was just a little past noon, and although I
felt peckish, I knew that if I moved, I would scare the
prey that was just waking. Catching a blip off to my
left out of the corner of my eye, I prepared myself for
another shot.
Almost a foot long, the fruit fly (that’s what
we call them, at least. We heard they used to be
smaller, but that must be nothing but myth!) buzzed into
view. Well, perhaps buzzed ain’t really the right word.
Despite being the size of a mythical rabbit from the
Golden Age, the fly made no more noise than its
mammalian counterpart.
With the stealth born of years of practice, I
readied my fly swatter. Built like a catapult of old,
the swatter could take down anything short of those
monstrous bees. The stingers on those zappers were
bigger than Big Tom’s arm. His left arm, at least,
because we have yet to find the right one after the mud-
dauber fiasco.
SMACK! My hair-trigger reflexes caught the fly
broadside as it tore across the landscape. Food for the
Tribe for months!
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