Death to all (fruit fly) infidels!

I am a killing machine.

In the past week I have massacred an entire sect of annoying, tiny insects that somehow got the idea they had the right to munch on my hard-earned fruit without my permission.

When we first moved in there were one or two of them that we easily shooed away when they perched atop the highest peach in our fruit bowl, but they started multiplying relentlessly. It reached critical mass last week when a winged contingion rose up when I attempted to select an apple from the bowl for lunch. These weren't just any apples. These were my beloved Akane apples purchased from the not-inexpensive farmers market and lugged home on a train and a bus whilst uncomfortably balanced on my hip. This, my friends, was personal.

Thus began my surprisingly accurate killing campaign. Though I lack any semblance of hand-eye coordination in other endeavors, every fly I set my sights on ended its life between my two palms of justice.

Though I doubt fruit flies can fit a brain inside that meager corpus, I decided to start playing mind games with them. I moved the fruit bowl from the kitchen to the dining room. When they discovered my ruse I came up with a new, better one: I covered the bowl with an upside-down paper bag. Success! The methane gases could get out but they couldn't get in. Lacking a food source, several of them migrated to the bathroom where they began living off our toothpaste. Every morning I offed another two or three and was glad the boyf gets up later than I do so he wouldn't hear me and think I was applauding a recent feat of quite another sort.

I am proud to say that I have seen but a handful flitting through our apartment this entire weekend, and every single one met its maker in my hand...ful.