“You know,” he thought to himself, “if you’re going to kill yourself, you should do it like Rachel Corrie.” He’d thought about her often. Not that she killed herself – the casual observer 10,000 miles away knew the IDF murdered her. Rather, her death had meant something. Her life means something. “She was,” he thought, “the closest thing to Jesus I’ve ever heard of.” There must be a support group for people with martyr complexes. Of course, the CIA would recruit there. No doubt they frequent sexaholics meetings, already.
A fly landed on his crotch. Legs spread wide in his chair, he looked down at it dumbly. He’d already decided that most of humanity was on par with the fly, in so far as it related to him. That is to say, he wondered about their thoughts in the same way he wondered about the fly’s. “What kind of consciousness do you have?”, he asked it. He thought the fly might be looking at him. It’s multi-eyed eyes starring just as dumbly back at him, he heard, “enough to know my purpose, asshole”, and with that, the fly began to rub it’s fore-legs together. A torrent of rage born out of jealously surged through his chest, into his lungs, up his throat, until it came out as a powerful bellowing warning, “if you fucking touch me one more time, Fly, i’m going to have to defend myself!” As with all mighty seas, the wave came washing back filled with guilt and regret. “I don’t want to hurt you. You only have to not touch me!” The fly was already gone. That about sums up how it had been going for him lately.
Landing on the wall in front him, the fly cocked back on it’s hind legs, looked at him, and said, “What the fuck, man. You’ve got issues! You asked me the question, man, not the other way around.” It made tight circles on the wall. “It isn’t my fault you can’t fucking figure out why you’re alive. I do what I’m supposed to. You? You just hop around and scream and try to kill me while apologizing for it. Seriously, what the fuck is that about?”
It became obvious just what kind of consciousness this fly had. It would appear that it was, as predicted, just the same as every human on the planet, save a few he’d met, and a few more he hadn’t, he hoped.
“We’ll see,” he said. “you land on me again and I’ll have no choice but to destroy your ill-informed-sense-of-purpose consciousness. You as you, will cease to exist.” He’d returned to the cold analytical; such denial was impossible with anything else. The rage gone, now a game of wits was to ensue.
“Because I know I’m supposed to fly around and eat shit, I’m the Jerk?” the fly quickly retorted. His voice was deep and nasal. “You’re really fucked up, man.”
One might have looked upon the scene with a bit of curiosity: a talking fly and a deranged man half out of his wits, the two enrapt in each other. Outside, the constant hum of motors and pounding, rattling and the occasional screech of metal being dragged around, roared at him. The city outside was busy growing and renewing it’s body. The noise was simply the growing pains of a well fed child; a fat, ugly, colic child.
“You’re a fucking jerk because you won’t respect my space!” he shot back.
“Dude, your space just happens to be filled with dead shit. And salt. Mmmm. If it weren’t for me, you’d be drowning in a pile of dead skin. But more to the point, what’s with your apologies? You attack me and all the while, you’re shedding crocodile tears? Fuck, man. I understand a frog is hungry, or a lizard, or whatever, but you – you’re just having a freak out, man.”
He had to admit, the fly was basically right. The implications were painful: the whole of humanity, except him, was satisfied with their individual, and collective, purposes. It was information that just didn’t sit well with him. And, after all, admitting something to one’s self and admitting something to others are two different things. He began to reach for the rag he’d kept near by for just such occasions. Sensing the danger, the fly took off and buzzed around, out of reach. The futility obvious, he put the rag back down.
His thoughts drifted back to Rachel Corrie. It must have been fifteen years since she’d been murdered; maybe twenty. She was murdered because she believed that people weren’t corrupt and evil. As if to prove her wrong, some evil bastard rolled right over her with a bulldozer, blade down. It was later claimed the driver couldn’t see her, despite the fact that he’d originally stopped because she put her body in the way of them bulldozing the house of a family that was still living there. The very fact that they felt the need to lie about it, indicates they were well aware of the moral crime they were guilty of. At least he didn’t bother with the lies, he thought. He knew his murder of flies was morally unjustifiable, and he made no pretenses for his guilt and shame.
Had Israel just come out with it, “Yeah, we murdered her. It was wrong, but we did it and we’re not sorry!”, he might have been able to at least respect their honesty. Instead, it was all bullshit, wrapped in the indelicate language of legalese and politics. Israel was not alone. They all did it.
He found the fly sitting on the electric cord to the desk lamp. “You know, Fly, it’s not me that’s fucked up. I don’t deny my purpose.” He was reaching now, a bit unsure of what would come out next. “I see what is, and imagine what could be. That is my purpose. You see what is, and revel in it. Instead of saying, ‘Hey, I don’t want to eat shit!’, you just eat shit. And worse still, you can’t even acknowledge that there might be something better – a world without any shit, and no one has to eat shit anymore! But, Nooooo! You fucks can’t get on board with that!” he was starting to get worked up. The fly twisted nervously on the cable. It was becoming clear that he wasn’t just talking to the fly, anymore. He stood up and paced in circles on the floor. “I’m the fucking nut case because I can imagine a world without all the bullshit! A world where people don’t kill everything!”
“Says the dude that just tried to fucking murder me!” the fly said.
“Well, goddamnit! I fucking beg you to respect me and end up trying to inform you of the consequences, which you roundly ignore. What am I left to do? If I don’t demand change, I am remiss in fulfilling my purpose.”
“Way to be like everyone else – kill everything that stands in the way of your perceived purpose.” The fly was proving himself a worthy opponent. He wasn’t about to let himself be trolled by a fly.
“I suppose you enjoy eating shit?” he asked the fly?
“Sure do, man! And it sure makes raising the kids easy. Who wouldn’t appreciate a pantry that was always full? And better still, I don’t have to pay for it.” The fly was trolling well. His hook set, he’d begun to pull him in. Unfortunately for the fly, this wouldn’t end well. A battle of wits is one thing, but taunting a tool-using ape with opposable thumbs is rarely a good idea for an insect less than a centimeter long.
“That make sense.” He thought about the masses of humanity that wouldn’t stand against injustice, even in its face. “You would believe your purpose is so limited. ‘It is how it is, ergo it is how it should be.’ Except you ignore that, ‘how it is’, is a direct result of what you did with how it was. You were given life, and yet you exist in death. You rationalize your laziness and unwillingness to improve with such panaceas as Patriotism! You always ask ‘how shall we pay for it?’, but you never ask how anyone would collect, if no one were to pay for it! Even you! You imagine purpose in shit, and leave your children the same legacy!” The heat outside was seeping in. Sweat began to bead up on his head, and his usual pale yellow skin was beginning to shine a nearly imperceptible pink. He paused his circling to look for the fly.