They have lurked in corners, a few here, a few there. Not an infestation, but a small colony. The dreaded, evil, insidious, fruit flies were lying, waiting for the opportunity to overrun the house and take control. When I fell sick on Wednesday, they took the opportunity and began a full invasion. Originally based in the kitchen, they advanced to forward positions in the living room and moved towards the bedrooms. As I lay ill in bed they moved down the hallway, swarming over the children in the bathroom, and attempting to conquer the Guinea pigs. By the time I felt better, late Friday, they had conquered roughly 85% of the upper floor of the house and had scouting expeditions into the basement. Time was short. Soon the swarms would evict us. But Uncle Walter was feeling better (despite the fact that he kept referring to himself in the third person).
As his energy returned, he went to the main base of operations of the fruit fly empire and attacked. Armed with only bleach spray and paper towels, the kitchen was purged of the flying scourge. The Wife went out and procured several weapons for our arsenal. The organic bug spray made the house smell like rancid mint lifesavers but seemed to weaken the numbers of the hoards. The guinea pigs were moved to a safe house and their home became saturated with minty death. The casualties for the flies was in the thousands, if not millions, and so far we hadn't lost a single man. But The Boy was wounded when he accidentally swallowed one that flew by him. Somehow he miraculously survived.
Despite the aggressive attacks to their home bases, washing the walls and spraying everywhere, they regrouped and launched a new assault in the living room. This time UW took a different approach and left deadly little treats for the fruit fly drones. Carefully placed jars, with a quarter inch of The Wife's Red Stag Black Cherry whiskey, lured in many of the beasts, who drank themselves into a stupor and then drowned. The numbers of dead kept climbing and soon the armies of fruit flies began to fall back, losing territory quickly. Unfortunately they found a new base of operations, this time in The Girl's room, where some spilled drinks had left a tasty treat of syrupy stickiness for them to feast upon. As of 21:00 Sunday, Eastern Time, the flies had camped for the night.
Tomorrow, after work, a massive offensive against them is planned. Maybe, just maybe, we will storm the beaches of the fruit fly Normandy and they will finally be defated. Wish me luck. If I don't make it, tell The Wife, "Hello."
-UW
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