I think I have uncovered a bizarre plot to drive humans to destroy themselves through sneaky irritation.
It’s definitely something to do with the government.
Or the new world order.
Or The Illuminati.
Or Dan Brown.
Definitely one of those four.
Or the French.
Or maybe even that shifty guy I saw putting something quite large, wrapped in a carpet, in the boot of his car at 4am the other day.
Whomever’s fault it is, it’s far worse than we thought!
They’re driving us mad with flies!
We may like to think it’s just the hyperactive, sugar fuelled, bouncing off walls antics of your standard summer fly.
You know this little twat?
Right headcase.
Comes in your house and bugs the shit out of you for three days.
Seems to love you. Can’t leave you alone.
Landing on stuff and you and more stuff and you and buzzy buzzy buzzy round me tabs and land on me again and stuff and me and stuff and SUDDEN MAD KAMIKAZI DIVE TO THE SIDE OF MY HEAD FOR ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING REASON!!!
Yeah. That dude.
We may think it’s simply random irritation by a dumb insect who keeps reminding us we must shower more.
We’d be wrong.
I’ve been watching them.
It’s not random.
There’s a pattern.
If you look hard enough and watch how they work you can see they run in shifts and they are highly organised.
There are always two.
One is the ‘Primary’.
This guy has the job of bugging the absolute crap out of anyone he can find.
The other one is the ‘Secondary’.
He hangs around in the background keeping out of the way, watching, monitoring and analysing. Vomitting in your fruit bowl. He’s there to back up the Primary. He’s the understudy if you like.
Ever shooed a fly out of a window or door and turned around in victory only to see the fly buzzing around behind you?
That’s the Secondary.
The Primary gets forced out of the building and he’s straight on his flyee-cryee to inform the Secondary who immediately assumes the Primary role.
(Flies wouldn’t have walkie-talkies would they?)
There can be no gap in the irritation.
They have to do this. It’s part of the plan.
World fucking domi-bastard-nation mother fuckers!
They’ve been working on it for centuries.
They drive us fractionally insane every summer in the hope that the minute changes in irritation levels leads people to make different decisions in their daily lives.
They generally make the world worse in very small increments. It’s the long game but it’s brilliant.
Flies ain’t got nowhere to be.
Possibly fly down the ear of a guy in a suit in an office with no corners?
Wriggle your big, hairy fly butt down in there and give it some proper buzzing.
Prez goes hatstand, punches the first lady in the groin, melvins the vice president and head butts the big red button.
All those big bomb things go off bang and we’re all toast; the flies have the world to themselves.
A world conveniently covered in the decaying, charred flesh of the dead.
Nom noms for flies.
So there’s always two at any one time. The Secondary backing up the Primary in case the Primary gets lost, stuck in a fridge, eaten by a cat or their time travel device malfunctions leaving them vulnerable to human attack and they get splattered on a kitchen wall or dining room table by the lucky swing of a rolled up newspaper.
There are always two.
And if the Primary gets incapacitated in any way, the Secondary takes over as the new Primary.
Then a new Secondary appears to fill the gap the previous Secondary made when the previous Secondary moved up to become the new Primary when the previous Primary had that unfortunate accident and was turned into a currant by a small child.
The previous Primary, if he doesn’t get his arse knocked through his own face, receives a medal and retirement with a generous pension on Jack Loogie Llama Land, an island just outside Birmingham. The previous Secondary becomes the current Primary but not a currant like a fly with its legs and wings pulled off, like the now now Primary now current.
To put it simply:
The new Secondary arrives and takes over the job vacated by the previous Secondary who moved up to become the current Primary after the previous Primary became a currant.
I have no idea how they get inside in the first place or where the constant supply of replacements comes from.
I guess they fly in through the open window ‘cos it’s summer and it’s quite warm.
Uhhh.
I thought that was going to be some long winded, fantastical treatise on the theories of how flies get in and out of houses.
Probably involving lots of talking animals, crazy characters, fictitious events from my past, exaggerated real events from my past, fictitious events from other people’s past and a steaming great big thick dollop of bullshit to hold it all together.
But no.
They just fly in through the window.
Huh.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
I feel……empty.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah.
So there are two at any one time.
They work a twelve hour shift.
At shift change, two completely different flies take over.
That’s how they can hang around for weeks when they should die in days.
To steal the title of Golding’s underrated sequel to his more famous work, it really is a ‘revolving door of the flies’.
Every second shift change, the teams of flies swap team mates and each Primary becomes the other Secondary and each Secondary becomes the other Primary.
So that everyfly gets a go at doing all the things.
Team 1 Member 1 Primary teams up with Team 2 Member 2 Secondary and Team 2 Member 1 Secondary teams up with Team 1 Member 2 Secondary then current Team 1 Primary………..
The screen fades to black and sombre music gently plays in the background.
A voice.
A deep, resonating baritone.
Authoritative yet reassuring and calming.
It speaks:
“And that’s where they found him a week later, slumped in an armchair holding a bowl of soggy cornflakes, still muttering about Primarys and Secondarys.
He was, of course, completely mad.
The doctors did their best to help him.
They electrocuted him, water boarded him, knocked little iron nails into his temples and the soles of his feet and stuck a tap in his head so the demons could get out easier.
That tap was real copper too!
They even went as far as cutting out a portion of his brain.
AND they sewed him back up with a lemon in the hole so he should have thought himself lucky rather than complaining the whole damn time.”
There was nothing more the doctors could do.
They stuck him in an oubliette for a few months and had a bit of a laugh with him.
Dressed him as a bunny rabbit and taunted him with Cadbury’s Crème Eggs. Asked him if he wanted takeaway then didn’t get him anything and ate Chicken Chow Mein in front of him while making ‘mmmm, this delish’ noises.
They poked him with a dazzling array of different sized and shaped sticks. Pointy ones, blunt ones, knobbly ones, whippy ones, you name it, they tried it.
Just to see which ones pissed him off more. Scientists love doing that sort of shit.
Turns out it doesn’t really matter.
It didn’t make a difference what size or shape they were.
The guy just didn’t like being poked with sticks.
So that was all that time wasted.
We’ll never get it back you know.
Once everyone that could be found had a go at pissing and/or shitting on the guy’s head, they just shot him in the eye with a crossbow and took up golf instead.
‘Pro-Am Dropping Shit on the Head of a Guy in an Oubliette’ was a big hit for quite a while, but its popularity was definitely hurt by its complicated scoring system:
- 2 points for a piss hit.
- 1 point for a piss splash.
- 15 points for a shit hit (solid).
- 30 points for a bouncer shit hit (solid).
- 10 points for a soggy shit hit (non-solid).
- 7.9178 points for a soggy shit splash hit (non-solid).
- All points are halved if the guy is asleep or otherwise demobilised.
- All points are quartered if the guy has a sword, spear or other pointy object impaled in his body.
- Instant win on ‘Blinding the Cyclops’ – Guy is stumbling around having caught a previous descenter in one eye, either piss, shit, stones or anything you can chuck in the hole really. You ‘Blind the Cyclops by hitting his one remaining good eye with piss, shit (sold or non-solid) or a live squirrel.
18 people went completely insane trying to work out the points when Eric ‘Gutbus’ Kendrick arrived having been on a weekender in the bran cake, lager and curry district.
The guy in the oubliette was slumbering with an arrow in his left buttock and one eye caked open by a particularly nasty, semi-solid, oat based human-pat.
Gutbus stumbled up to the hole, pissed as the proverbial newt.
He had already lost his trousers and part of an ear, he had no idea how. Now people feared he would fall in the hole.
But Gutbus was a pro.
He skipped up to the edge of the oubliette like a man half his size who had eaten another man twice his size.
He turned his back, bent his knees and slowly straightened his spine. He reached his arms forward to alter his centre of gravity, allowing him to teeter his posterior out over the edge of the hole.
He took a deep breath, winked at a nearby maiden (who farted loudly in surprise) and proceeded to evacuate.
Almost immediately, the crowd sensed there was a problem.
Gutbus wore a pained expression. His face was red with effort. He was not breathing, using all the force he could, but there was no splendid release.
Gutbus stopped pushing. Panting and sweating, he winked nervously once more at the maiden (who sharted) and spoke to the crowd.
“It must have been that pickled egg I ate earlier, ha ha ha ha.”
“Ha ha ha ha.” said the crowd.
A few members of the crowd cheered and one die hard fan shouted out that he too had an affection for pickled things.
“I like to stick ’em up me arse. Speshly the little white ones.” he said.
“I have exactly the opposite problem my friend, aha ha ha ha ha.” said Gutbus.
“Aha ha ha ha ha.” said the crowd.
Gutbus went about his business once more, this time with renewed effort and determination.
A young man, lacking an arm, covered in puss oozing pustules, full of disease, empty of wit, hard of hearing and soft of kneecap, had fought his way to the front of the crowd.
He had been determined to get to the front.
He pushed several people out of the way to get there.
He kicked a dog, clobbered a cat and sued a caterpillar for obstruction.
Granny Mills had her basket rammed over her head and three season tickets for Broadway musicals thrust into her hand.
The horror!
Nobody wants that.
The young man, through force of will, finally made it to the front of the crowd. This moment had been planned for weeks and now it was finally here. The young man had saved all his pebbles up and managed to scrape enough together to buy a whole stone!
He had eaten it before arriving here and it had given him the strength and energy to fulfil his lifelong dream of watching someone take a piss and/or shit on someone else in the bottom of a big hole.
The young man was amazed to find, after pointy-elbowing his way through the last ranks at the front of the crowd, that he had somehow managed to emerge in the pride of place.
Smack bang in the middle directly opposite the poop deck. He had a view right up the winking brown eye of Gutbus.
Maenwhile (sorry, I went temporarily Danish there), Gutbus was having trouble.
Nothing was moving. He had already shifted his left lung three inches closer to his liver, detached a retina, burst a vein in his forehead and popped his ears.
If he pushed anymore Gutbus thought it might kill him.
But the crowd cheered and roared his name.
“Come on Gutbus, you can do it.” they cried.
“Gutbus, Gutbus, he’s our man, if he can’t do it maybe somebody else might be willing to give it a try.” they sang.
“Blark fungle ekkoreeaa totungu.” they shalangued.
“Has anyone seen my keys?” said Mr. Phillips.
Gutbus owed it to his public. HIS public.
They were his. He held them in the palm of his hand. He was the Great Gutbus. Fat, sweaty fuck extraordinaire. He had once shit an actual brick!
True, he had gone a bit mad on the cheese lately but still, no bowel obstruction can stop the mighty Gutbus. Especially when there is a steaming hot river of molten poop backed up behind it.
Gutbus grabbed both his knees and held tight, forcing as hard as he could.
He utilised the ancient Tibetan method of ‘Expelling the Brown Soul Stains with Vigour and Shiny Happy Clenching’.
Quieten your mind, be one with the mole, coax the turtle from its shell with the promise of really crispy lettuce. Line up your chakras and force your lower intestine into the shape of a salamander.
Thus will your colon be cleansed.
Or you’ll die like Elvis; cross-eyed and covered in your own shite.
Either way it’ll be a laugh, right? At least for everyone else.
The young man standing opposite Gutbus noticed movement.
Yes! There is was!
It was definitely crowning now.
The crowd gasped.
Gutbus relaxed and the shape disappeared again.
The crowd booed and one grizzly, old lady at the back shouted,
“Fuckin’ time waster! Get ‘old o’ the bastard! I dint come all this way to watch some limp buttocked shirker half arse it!”
Gutbus was momentarily shaken by this outburst, but he sensed victory. He already had breach. He just had to get behind it, dig deep and fire it out. He took a huge lungful of air and tried again.
The young man smiled as there was movement once more.
Features became visible as the object slowly squeezed into the light.
A chin?
A mouth?
A nose and an eye?
A face?
The head of a child’s doll stared straight at the young man. It may have had blonde hair once but it was a brunette now.
Its eyes pleaded; ‘Kill me, please kill me’.
There was a loud ripping noise.
Gutbus’ face slid from contorted and straining to really surprised and slightly scared.
Like when you think it’s a fart so you let it out and it turns out to not be a fart at all but something far more sinister.
“Oo.” said Gutbus.
The young man had seen the tear happening to Gutbus’ butthole. When it happened, Gutbus immediately released pressure and the head disappeared back to whatever hell it had come from.
“SEAMSTRESS!” yelled Gutbus, “I AM GOING TO NEED YOU SHORTLY.”
The seamstress went out to the back yard of her hovel, took her sewing kit from her pocket, stared at it sadly, shook her head, sighed, threw it to the floor and promptly beat herself to death with her own shoe.
Gutbus went into evacuate position once more. He wasn’t going to let an anal tear stop him. In any case he was beginning to feel quite unwell and needed whatever was inside to be outside as quickly as possible.
The crowd was on tenterhooks.
A young woman called Gertrude fell off her tenterhook because it was all greasy. She had used it this morning to circumcise a bull. As she fell into the mud she realised this was a mistake.
She should have listened to her old granny.
“Gertrude.” said Granny, constantly, “No one likes a greasy tenterhook.”
The young man leaned in for a closer look as Gutbus’ buttocks quivered once more. This was heaven.
There was movement! The dolls head appeared slowly once more, this time upside down. The young man swore it winked at him.
There was a lot of farting.
First, what sounded like three angry ducks having an argument. Then, a certain moistness began to be the prominent theme.
Then two streams of grade A, high velocity diarrockabumsquirt flew out of the dolls face, one from each eye socket.
The little plastic eyes were popped from their sockets by the power of the eruption and carried along on the stream.
The stream hit the young man right in his eager face. Eyes wide, mouth agape.
He didn’t move.
The stream had confused his feeble mind.
As he stood there being squirted with shit, the dolls plastic eyeballs bounced off his forehead; one, then the other.
“Plinnnkk.”
“Plonkk.”
The stream stopped. The young man stood motionless, shit dripping down his face. The crowd fell silent.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” squealed Gutbus.
The dolls head suddenly escaped its prison. It hit the young man in the face, knocking him cold. His unconscious body fell into the hole and landed in three separate places. Mangled and broken.
Whatever had been trapped inside Gutbus for god knows how long exploded into the world, taking Gutbus’ arse with it.
His buttocks returned to earth moments later as a fine rain.
Gutbus himself later died from lack of bottom.
His last thoughts on this mortal coil, like so many other great men, were:
‘I don’t remember eating that!’
42 members of the crowd were killed instantly by the smell of the explosion.
A further 12 members of the crowd were seriously injured and may never smell again.
A further 18 further members of the crowd, feeling that the players that day were at least owed the luxury of knowing the result, tried to work out the points total of what had just happened.
Each one’s skull simply popped neatly open and their grey matter cascaded out of their head like brain popcorn.
There was a full investigation but the verdict was an unpopular one; Death by Misadventure.
No one was blamed.
The guy in the oubliette still died though. Got shot in the head, remember. It’s such a sad, tragic, sad and tragic story of man meets fly goes mad then dies.
A story repeated around the world in a million different ways for a billion different people.
Over and over again.
Fin.
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Or is it?
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Yes. It is.
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THEY CAUGHT THE GUY DROOLING IN HIS CORNFLAKES, DRAGGED HIM TO A NUTHOUSE, ELECTROCUTED HIM, LOBOTOMISED HIM, CHUCKED HIM IN A HOLE FOR MONTHS, POKED HIM WITH A MILLION POKEY STICKS, TORTURED AND ABUSED HIM, MADE HIM EAT HAWAIIAN PIZZA, PISSED AND SHIT ON HIM THEN SHOT HIM IN THE HEAD WITH A CROSSBOW – HE AINT COMING BACK FROM THAT, THIS IS THE END MY FRIENDS..
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Or is it?
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Yes. It is.
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Get a life. There’s nothing else.
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Or is there?
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No. There isn’t.
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There really isn’t.
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Stop it.
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It’s just your own time you’re wasting.
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I like turtles.
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Smoking can give you brain aliens you know.
