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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