There once lived a humble man in a humble home, (we'll call this man Joe). Joe spend his time in simplicity, sipping the tea from his mug and reading daily snippets of the newspaper from the comfort of his front porch and wooden chair. The sun was shining, the birds were chiming, the wind was blowing, the grass was growing. Joe had achieved what most would struggle with in the middle of the day; inner peace.

Bizz, buzz, braze. In came the humble fruit fly, gliding through the tumbling winds, flying into the airspace of a humble home for a humble man. The fruit fly has journeyed long and far, always in search for a tasty treat or a succulent drink. The fruit fly, with his wings wee small and his body small as a dark dot, circled high in the air, absorbing the porch in sight. The winds overpower his might, but the fly persists in plight, waiting for the time right.

Sip, slurp, slosh. The man drank the warm tea from his favorite mug, savoring the substance, slowing his delight so that it may last longer. The warming heat of this tasteful fluid swirled upwards, spiral by spiral.

Whiff, waft, whirl. The trail and mist of a tasty drink has found him at last. The fly, thirsty from his long journey, glides downward, swirling the trail, spiral by spiral. As always, nature provides in plenty those who wait. The fruit fly dove down towards the mug, aiming for but a sip of its delight.

Bizz, buzz, braze. The wings of the fly echoed cacophony to the man's ear, alerting Joe that a fly was near. Alert and wary, Joe's humbleness carried; his eyes launched from the newspaper pad, scanning the skies and the porch for the buzzing hath made him mad. Then and there, pairs of eyes met; one human, and one he soon regret.

"Go on! Get out of here!" Swat, swipe, swack. Joe swung his paper forward and back, angry at the fruit fly. His porch was a place of serenity and sanctuary, and this fly has invaded its sanctity, not to bizz or to buzz, but to drink from his own mug. Joe was disgusted by the fly, reminded that a bug is still a bug, not matter how small and snug.

The fly dodged, danced, and dazzled its way to safety, circling above the tea, brave and persistent as his enemy. The fly was not harmful; he only wanted to drink. Joe, oh Joe! Why could he not shrink? The fly claimed the tea one with nature, fair game to all humble and plenty, but the man towering before him could kill the fly with one smack. The fly was cautious, but not slack.

"Stupid fly!" the man bellowed in his raspy old tone. "I don't need this. I'll just go home." Joe valued his inner peace above all else. Refusing to sacrifice his efforts to the fly, he would retreat inward the doors, waiting for him, one fresh pie.

So it was, Joe was left alone. Buzzing around, the fly not atoned, for he now had his drink. A single droplet of tea, spilt from the commotion tantalized his tongue of thirst. The fly got his drink at last, sipping in silence, peace, and serenity.

Thirst fulfilled and desire slain, the fly now hungered, its peace in vain. The fruit fly could smile, his foul luck abate. As always, nature provides in plenty those who wait. After minutes alone, the fly senses his next meal. The fly's nose, more powerful than man, would drive his urge to feast again. The house has a venue, and pie is on the menu. Doors and walls may keep critters out, but the fly is small, walking under, below the door mount.

So it was, Joe believed to be alone. Buzzing around, the fly not atoned, for he would soon have his favorite dish. Bizz, buzz, braze. The pie's crust would soon be his wish.

The fly found the house easy to maneuver, the pots, pans, and counters setting his stealth smoother. Like the jet formations of the Air Force and Navy, this fly remained in formation, ten meters out from the simmering gravy. Oh sweet viscous sugar, so tasty and sweet, come to our stomachs, thwart hunger with wheat.

The baked pie sat steaming, Joe's eyes gleaming. The long awaited meal of his day, "is good, I'll say." Joe had achieved what he nearly lost in the wild, untamed arena of the outdoors; inner peace. From the cooking in fitness, with this pie as his witness, Joe can finally eat a meal, humble and without stiffness.

Shoot, soar, sail. The fly in the air made his claim, be it fair, twas in the name. As determined as wings over Vietnam, this fly sped forward, on and on. The pie would be the landing strip, arriving at last. Joe couldn't stop it, the fly too fast.

There's a golden rule all men know too well. When a fly hits food, their chance to dine will fail. The fly is a fly, a pest, gross; a flying monument of germs. And so it was, the pie now ruined, as distasteful as a pile of worms. When the fly had its turn, Joe's brows creased stern, his veins tightening in display, for his dinner was now in dismay.

"Curse you fly!" the man shouted to the heavens; with his pie ruined, his anger cranked up to eleven. Though Joe felt fierce, his justice balanced his rage, for he still had his newspaper, rolled up, stiff and staged. Joe nearly laughed in what he was certain to pass, the battle lost, but the war made to last. The fly stole and ruined his meal, so now, Joe decreed, the fly's life is soon to yield.

Swat, swipe, swack. Joe swung his paper forward and back, livid at the fruit fly. Losing his tea was but a nuisance; losing this great pie was all atrocious. Joe unleashed his fury, swinging and swatting like a maniac. But no matter how many tries he took for the fruit fly, he missed and mashed, ruining the kitchen and the leftover pie.

The fruit fly dodged, danced, and dazzled away from the danger, his size and agility more than a match for the guy's anger. It was this one advantage that all flies possess; when swatting to kill, the flies dodge and buzz, amplifying man's stress. There was a reason Joe could not kill this fly, you see. Joe is large and strong, but the fly will always buzz and flee. It's skin is too soft and bouncy to be injured by a thwack, its nimble wings making mockery of every smack.

"I'll kill this fly!" Joe claimed and claimed. His vengeance fueled new power, power he would use until the fly is slain. Joe had to up his game, for the newspaper proved useless. Perhaps an old fashion fly swatter will splatter this fly juiceless.

The fly loved his pie, wondering in silence why the man refused to share. With a swatter now on approach, it was time to return to air. Joe was faster now, his swings and swats perfect aim, but the fly didn't die, Joe's method proving lame. In some instances, the fly could fit through the small holes of the swatter. In other lucky breaks, the lack of an ending surface proved which was smarter. The fly got away, again and again, making the man fume and swear to all no end.

So it was, Joe imagined, the fly laughing at him, taunting and smiling. The fly seemed victorious, but Joe's craftiness was now compiling. The fly seems invincible, all taunt and told; but all men know, bugs can't fly in the cold.

Sprayed mist was prepared, chilled with water and ice; the fly's days were now numbered, its chances but a slice. It didn't take long to find the invader. This fly buzzed and bizzed, the ever confident crusader. Joe aimed his device so ready and certain, ignoring the collateral behind his curtain.

The fruit fly soared higher, bracing his body for the bombardment of winter, flying in grace as the morality of life was set and center. The fly could not understand the vengeance of the man, for the pie was but a small snack, the fly leaving plenty more than a gram. The fly was never a threat, not Joe's meal nor his predator, so why oh why, must this fly have to die?

Joe unleashed this mist of fury, soon to smother the fly none will bury. As the mist of air flaked the fly, the little creature buzzed on by. Miffed and puzzled, Joe shook the bottle, baffled and confused, his anger now full throttle. How, just how can a fly survive an arctic blast? May he come up with a solution at last?

So it was, Joe set up his next cunning plan, relying on his rage, instead of logic sound to stand. Joe continued his shenanigans to rid the house of the fly, throwing knives, pans, even a mallet made of ply. Nothing it seemed, would get this guy.

Exhausted of utensils, Joe became evermore determined to purity his hall. So next he brought out, his trusty chainsaw. The battery powered tree killer was loud and annoying, but with this tool, Joe was certain this fly would submit to his destroying.

Cutting and slashing, Joe tore apart everything in his path, the counters and walls unsafe from his wrath. So many times has this fly dodged death, Joe would saw and destroy, until he was all out of breath. So it was that the fly had survived, and Joe's entire house looked worse than a crushed bee-hive. Slashed chairs and tabletops were strewn about, cluttering every room, broken and scattered out. All this damage for just one fly, but Joe refused the urge to cry. His anger only intensified, narrowing his red rage to the swirling buzzing pest. Joe tossed the dead chainsaw and chanted, "you're next!"

If force, winter, and chainsaws won't work, perhaps the deadliest weapon will wipe off that cocky fly smirk. Joe went for his grand finale, the weapon of all weapons he knew would kill bugs, of fire and flames will this device smite any thug.

Joe readied the flamethrower, ignited and ready. Aiming the gun higher, he held himself steady. If the fruit fly wants to act all invincible, let's test the fates no matter how sensible. All bugs hate fire, Joe knew so well. "Let's lite this little prick," his story soon to tell.

Joe held his trigger, blasting heat and flames forward, the thrower sweeping everywhere, until the fly is lowered. The man turned mad, laughing in the victory that was to be, for he has a flamethrower, and the fly has but glee. Joe cared not that he couldn't see through the raging inferno, since he was so certain this fly will roast and pop. The flames spread far and wide, consuming everything without stop.

Joe ensured these flying blazes of hell reached every corner of the house, laughing and cackling as the fly went up in smoke. Only then did he realize what result he brought woke. Consumed in his rage, Joe had not realized the terrors he unleashed, but with the fly now dead, he too would soon be deceased.

Joe tossed the flamethrower, running from his home safe and sound, glad to be alive, but horrified to see his house a burning mound. Watching his house burn with both hands on his forehead strung back, Joe reflected on his actions, that which lost his home with no time to pack. This fire was already melting the home, too wild and vicious to put out, and all Joe could do was stand here and pout. He had not won the battle or the war; what was one fly to a whole house, complete with one ceiling, and one floor?

So it was, Joe's house was burning down. With no way to stop it, this brought him a hard frown. Joe regretted his actions, but recanted the only upside to this tragedy. His house may be gone, but there was still one fatality. The fruit fly that bugged him to no end was finally dead, so now, Joe thought, he could smile with that lies ahead.

Joe was a humble man, but this fly tested his patience, tarnishing his name. Still, in the end, Joe figured he had won this game. Joe must now take to the fields and roam, but this is okay, because he will find a new home. That which vanquished his best quality was now gone, so Joe turned his gaze to the sky, sun still rising to dawn.

Bizz, buzz, braze. That which threatened to consume him was still not enough. The fire consumes all, but this fly was too tough. Buzzing and zooming did the fly whizz by his ear, making Joe jump back, angry and in fear.

"You couldn't have survived that! You stupid fly!"

The fruit fly could not speak, but he knew all to well, which of the two was dumb. The fly was only a fly, yet this human ruined his house over one small crumb. Was it worth all the damage to kill one fly? Joe gave it his all, it was really a nice try. The fly glimmered with glee, flying high and far out of reach, laughing at the man below with a new lesson to teach.

"Come back here! I'll kill ya for all you've done to me!" Joe was writhing in anguish, his victory only a full defeat. The fly cared not, happy in its new retreat. Gone now was the fly, losing nothing as a temporary visitor. Joe has been left behind, homeless and left with nothing. As for the fly, he has been fed, entertained, and prepared for the world that lies ahead, all from being humble, where the man had not.

Flies are hard to kill; sometimes not worth it. Will you be humble, or will you be a half-wit?