Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Curtis Mayfield Superfly
 Frank Sinatra Come Fly With Me
 The Offspring Pretty Fly (For A White Guy)
 Bill Conti Gonna Fly Now
I’m sure we’ve all fantasized about possessing superhuman strength at one time or another. As our bodies undergo the natural aging process, we often dream of being able to move at an accelerated pace or perform like a young buck in the sack, at least, I do. We all know what Bradley Cooper would do with such a limitless gift but what of someone like Jeff Goldblum? I mean, this dude surely does all of those things on his default setting. It doesn’t take much persuasion that he is in fact a fly. Indeed, it is hard to think of a more edgy and intriguing subject than Jeff. I’ve been a fan of his since primary introduction and, should his name be attached to a project, then I consider that a humongous upside. In 1986 he landed what is arguably his most famous role as eccentric scientist Seth Brundle and was kind enough to share his spotlight with an insect which needs no formal introduction.
The common fly is commonly regarded as one of the most aggravating insects in existence. I’m fully aware of the repercussions attached to harming one of God’s little creatures, it’s not on right? However, flies appear to be the exception to that rule. What purpose do they actually serve anyhoots? Study the facts, they stamp their shitty little feet into whatever unsavory delight they can sniff out first (usually feces) before locating our bowls of freshly picked raspberries, vomiting into them and proceeding to trample it in just for shits and giggles. Thanks to house flies, we can be introduced to all manner of foul pathogens resulting in anything from typhoid, cholera and dysentery to salmonella, tuberculosis and even anthrax. In addition, another pastime of theirs is to transmit the eggs of parasitic worms. Hardly what you would call wholesome.
Ordinarily a rolled up newspaper would be sufficient to dispose of one of these airborne shit-guzzlers and one swift swipe should do it as long as their backwards take off is anticipated. Then we simply grab a wing, toss them into the nearest waste disposal, and wash our hands thoroughly. Job done! However, what if said fly found a way of fusing itself with our DNA? Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that we had just invented a set of telepods, capable of transporting animate objects from A to B with the push of a single button. Sounds ingenious right? Whoever masterminded such a contraption would surely be a shoe-in for a Nobel Prize. Enter Seth Brundle, which is precisely what the fly of our story has in mind, and this young go-getter is no longer satisfied with being another also-ran. This telepod represents his one chance to prove himself one of the finest scientific minds on the circuit and he cannot wait to show off his new contraption.
This is where Veronica Quafe comes into play. An up-and-coming journalist for Particle magazine, she also bears an uncanny resemblance to Geena Davis who, herself, is something of a female Goldblum. Similarly odd and gangly, this appears to be a match made in heaven. Sure, she is intriuged by his claim of being on the cusp of mastering the transportation of a physical being by recreating its molecular structure, but there’s undeniable attraction between them also. At first everything appears to be going rather splendidly, the sexual chemistry is evidently present and correct, and she is fascinated with his brilliant mind. Being cerebral contemporaries, they drink from one another’s fonts of intelligence and are never short of stimulating dialogue.
His revelation is the kind that can turn you into a scientific Jesus overnight and Veronica is already ironing his loin cloth when things begin to go a little off-kilter. Being a brilliant mind, one would assume that, the moment his pet primate emerged from pod number two looking like a serving of overheated Mexican cuisine, alarm bells would be ringing loud and clear but Seth considers this little more than a minor setback. You’ve got to break a few eggs to make that omelette right? Or burn the odd gibbon to a cinder if you are all out of eggs. So he does what any dotty boffin would do given the circumstances and continues to roll the dice. With that Nobel Prize looking like a distinct possibility and patenting his creation set to be downright lucrative, he leaps into pod number one and beams up like Captain Kirk.
Now this is where flies really grind my gonads. You think you’ve got them and are convinced that your last swipe surely equalized the little fuckers. Then as you settle back into your seat and continue on with your life, that infuriating buzzing commences once more. The pest in question is no less elusive and manages to do its very best Indiana Jones impression by beating the door and grabbing itself an impromptu snapshot with our unsuspecting genius. At first it seems like the experiment has been an overwhelming success and Seth steps out from pod number two feeling utterly revitalized, brimming with fresh vigor, and the recipient of a full-body erection. Feeling jubilant, he heads out to find the nearest whack-a-mole to dominate and, when he has obliterated any high scores, decides to engage in a spot of arm wrestling to further test his strength. Let’s see how that one played out shall we?
Looks like a best out of three is out of the question. Seth soon tires of playing with his fellow bucks and heads back to his apartment to show Veronica how she can benefit from his rejuvenation. With vastly accelerated reflexes, unbounded sexual prowess, and the might of two steroid-pumped oxen, the act of coitus becomes an earth shattering affair and Ms. Quafe is left reasonably convinced that she has found herself a soul mate. Granted, she needs an ice pack down her panties for the foreseeable, as her vagina has been provided with a thorough pummeling, but love is in the air and, unless she is mistaken, the pitter patter of tiny feet may well be on the horizon. Little does she know that said feet will be rather adept at trampling down vomit. I wonder how the midwife would announce the birth.
Ms. Quafe, you have a beautiful baby…erm…larvae? Looks like it’s time to express that milk Veronica as breast-feeding is only going to end badly the moment your bundle of joy susses out how to latch on. Starting a family is now looking out of the question but she still has strong feelings for Seth and refuses to give up on her significant other. Regrettably, while he is certainly not short on the enthusiasm front, there appear to have been a few complications to his experiment. Back hair is an unsightly affliction at the best of times but the strands protruding from Seth’s rear section are far coarser than the kind that wave at you from Auntie Mabel’s facial mole at family gatherings. Moreover, he appears to have decided against parading under his birth name any longer and his new mantle “Brundlefly” appears to be a little too literal for her comfort. Indeed there ain’t a broadsheet broad enough to change this fly’s dimensions.
I’m wondering at which point Veronica decided that sex was no longer on the menu. Perhaps it was the moment when her lover’s teeth started dropping out of his maw like rotting apples? Or could his ear sliding down his cheek have been the clincher? Suddenly her editor and ex-boyfriend Stathis Borans is looking a more attractive proposition after all. Alas, Brundlefly is the jealous type and has no intention of allowing his adversary to steal his girl from beneath his nose (which is slithering down his sternum as we speak). It’s time for a dash of mano a mano to ascertain who is worthy of Veronica’s affections. However, what Stathis hasn’t figured into the equation, is that his adversary now holds sufficient barf in his cheeks to liquefy even the most stubborn alloy and, the moment he begins to wretch, the skirmish becomes a rather one-way affair. First things first, that wanking hand simply has to go.
With this undesirable obstacle to the path of true love no longer an issue, Brundlefly and Veronica can start making plans again. To her credit, Quafe’s loyalty to his cause is fairly unshakable as she has to stick by the father of their unborn offspring after all. While there’s a good chance said child will inherit its father’s looks, she doggedly believes that there is still hope for the budding family unit. Besides, the sex really is dynamic. Brundlefly can keep going all night and then go all over again. She must love the cock, turns out that earth girls really are easy after all. Unfortunately, he is now leaning more towards the fly end of the spectrum and, should her premonition be anything to go by, then it may not be necessary to pick baby colors just yet. What a tragic turn of events.
Which brings us back to the old superhuman debate. I’d be the first to accept an upgrade if that involved becoming something of a sexual rhinoceros and the idea of being able to scale walls and leap dozens of yards in one motion is certainly not to be sniffed at. That said, I like my features where they are, and the idea of excrement oozing between my toes is not one that I find particularly invigorating. There’s always a drawback to unnatural enhancement and Brundlefly is living, hurling proof of that theory.
Suddenly being Mr. Average isn’t seeming like such a hardship. Should I ever invent a pair of telepods, then my first acquisition will be a strip of flypaper. Seth may well be a genius and I wish him well in his quest for that Nobel Prize, really I do. But there are other shoes I would much rather step in than his and, when somebody invents a large enough newspaper to swat his sorry ass, he’ll be the one laughing on the other side of his face. Hardly worth the buzz eh Seth?
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2016