Eoin hated flies. Not the big mother-fucking blowflies (don’t swear, dear) but those little mother-fuckers. Those little fucking house-flies. (Don’t swear, dear). He hated the little fucking bastards. They’d land on your legs as soon as you sat down in the armchair with the feet up and a good comic.
All the time you’d swish, swish the book at the little fuckers. They wouldn’t leave you alone.
Eoin decided to rid the house of flies. He got a fly swot; a plastic one from the supermarket. He got a can of fly spray; “for all flying insects”. And he got one of those automatic fly spray contraptions that go fizz-fizz every seven minutes to squirt the air with pyrethrum and do the fucking flying assholes in.
“I‘ll get rid of those fucking little bastards if it kills me,” said Eoin.
“Don’t swear dear,” said his mother.
Eoin got asthma-like symptoms. He got atrial fibrillation. The heart specialists couldn’t work out why. He died.
It was a reaction to pyrethrum. Quite rare. The flies got him in the end.