Brad’s tiny fly body ached from the wallop it had taken from the rolled-up periodical wielded by his huge papa's hand.
Yet he dare not test his wings lest the buzzing alert his homicidal parent to his hiding place, so he cowered beneath the napkin, relying on the hope that Mark would get back soon and put a stop to this nightmare.
A dark shadow passed in front of the narrow window of space that afforded Brad his view of the world beyond the confines of the cloth napkin.
"What you doing, Papi?" Sal's voice boomed, even through the layer of fabric that, for the moment, concealed his transformed sibling.
“Maldita mosca!” Jim turned and faced Sal. “It got away, but it’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Sal controlled the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s obvious Brad’s not home. Maybe we should just go, eh, papi?”
Brad listened to the thunderous words. “Yes! Listen to him. Just go and leave me alone!”
“Not yet,” Jim said, every inch Captain Ahab to Brad’s insectoid whale. I haven’t dealt with that little pest.”
“You’re obsessed, Papi,” Sal said with a shake of his head.
“No!” Jim got up in Sal’s face, determined to educate him. “They’re filthy. They carry all sorts of germs. And they breed more vermin in no time.”
It was enough to give Brad a complex. Papi was technically correct, but he hadn’t been anywhere particular unhygienic since his transformation. Brad doubted he was carrying plague germs.
“I get it,” Sal relented. “The only good fly’s a dead fly.”
“Damn straight,” Papi said.
Brad shuddered. If they found him now, helpless, flightless, he was doomed.
Brad heard loud noises as Sal began rummaging through cabinets.
When his sibling came back into view, he was holding a towering canister with black and red labeling. Brad felt a splash of icy fear.
“No! Not bug spray!”
“¿A dónde se fue el pequeño bastardo?” Sal wondered aloud.
“Es aquí,” Jim muttered and scanned the room.
Sal focused more on the table. The sooner they dealt with the fly, the sooner they could head home…
The table didn’t offer much in the way of hiding places for an insect, but he spied one possibility.
Reaching with his hand, he lifted the napkin off the table, holding the can at the ready, one finger already against the nozzle.
Nothing!
The table was bare beneath the spot where the napkin had rested…
Until… the tiny fly’s grasp failed and it tumbled on its back onto the tabletop.
Six wiry legs flexed and waved as the insect spun in erratic circles as it tried to right itself.
Looking down from above both Jim and Sal locked eyes on the pathetic pest's feeble struggles.