Rescuing Johnny Flyovich. (standard:humor, 685 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 04 2020	Views/Reads: 1233/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
My housefly pal was hidden in an illegal Homeland Security prison.

Arabella Spiderski asked me to try to contact Johnny Flyovich.  He'd
left her months before but she still had feelings for the insect.  
Arabella wanted to make certain he was alive and well. 

I left messages on the walls of half the bathrooms in town, hoping he or
one of his friends would reply to my email box. --------------------- 
If you've seen Johnny Flyovich, please let me know.  I miss him, and 
need to know his whereabouts.  I'd do anything to find him.  I miss 
seeing him when I bend over and touch my toes, thinking he's behind me. 
 My mouth waters as I suck on my daily lollipop.  Maybe you can help me 
in my quest? Then I gave my name and phone number. 
--------------------------------- Well, I had plenty of drunken calls, 
but none about Johnny, or even any that interested me.  I don't do that 
stuff. 

Finally, one morning I received a phone call.  It was in a weak, but
sober, voice. 

"You want Johnny Flyovich?" it asked. 

"Yeah.  Who is this?" 

"Never mind.  But if you really want him, Homeland Security has Johnny
in a secret prison in the basement of a house somewhere on South Elm 
Street." 

"You don't know the address, or what the place looks like?" 

"Sheee, I can't tell you anymore.  My life is already in danger.  You do
know that Donny the Trump is monitoring telephones?  That's why I'm 
using a public phone." 

"How did you get my number?" 

"I have to go, really.  I don't trust these phones either.  Hurry
though, I really have ... hold on buddy, I'll be done in a min--" 

The call was cut off and I heard heavy breathing on the other end.
Taking the hint, I hurriedly hung up, shaking in my pink bunny 
slippers. 

*** 

Dressed in a black suit -- hell, my only suit, period -- I prowled
behind homes on South Elm Street, trying to determine which house might 
hold poor my housefly buddy. 

Finally, a break.  A man, also in a black suit and wearing dark
sunglasses, came out.  He held a Pooper Scooper in his hand, but no 
dog.  I saw him look both ways before scooping up a pile of fresh dog 
poop.  He then hurried back into the house at 323 South Elm. 

It must be for Johnny, I thought.  Why else bring dog crap into a house,
except to feed flies? 

I hung around outside, waiting, out of sight, until the same man came
back out, apparently for another scoop. 

Drawing my trusty .45, I stopped him on the bottom step of the porch. 

"Hold it right there, buddy.  Put the scooper down, and your hands up." 

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, raising empty arms. 

"Do you know who I am?"  I replied. 

He shook his head. 

"Good.  Let's keep it that way.  Okay, back inside,"  I ordered. 

The front room of the house had an entire wall filled with small cages. 
Some had flies inside and others contained different types of insects.  
A table held a large box of sand, a plastic sheet on top.  I looked 
inside to see arrays of ants, silently begging with their eyes -- to be 
set free. 

Another large cage held thousands of captive mosquitoes. 

"Any of you named Johnny Flyovich?"  I yelled out.  I heard a soft cry
from one cage. 

Going over, I saw Johnny buzzing weakly over a pile of crap.  He was
anxiously banging his head against the screen. 

"Hold on," I told him.  I opened the cage and raised my cap.  "Get in,
on my head," I implored. 

Returning the cap, I began opening cages of buzzing insects while
keeping my gun on the captive.  Before I left, I let out all but the 
mosquitoes.  I didn't like them much, in any case, and it was a good 
place to lock up the man in the suit. 

I guess they didn't like him much either, because I heard the man
screaming as I left, leaving the front door open. 

That's how I rescued Johnny Flyovich. 

The End.


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