“Electric, electric!” cries the fly as it buzzes into oblivion.
The cafe owner picks her nose as she serves another piece of dry cake to another customer tired of the daily grind. She scratches her bottom and openly breaks wind, clearly believing good hygiene not a priority. Maybe she’s had her finger up there too, the dying fly wonders.
In the kitchen, the poorly-paid Pole watches his English companion doing things to chicken mayo sandwiches that you have probably heard as part of an urban legend.
“Stop.” he says, repulsed.
“‘Swat we do ‘ere, Pawel! I mean, Missus Anderson don’t wash ‘er ‘ands or ennythin’.”
“No,” Pawel says in reply. “Fly is watching.”
“The fly is watching? Fuck off mate, it can’t tell on me! It doesn’t have a brain and even if it did it looks like it’s going to drop dead any moment now!”
The fly struggled back into the cafe part. Scratching your arse and farting’s one thing, but replacing the chicken mayo with EGG mayo is despicable. As predicted by the deplorable, the fly dropped dead, landing on the skin of a clock-cold minestrone.