The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

March 5, 1996 was the day the household fly became sentient. One by one, the world over, they rubbed their legs together and looked over their body with their two hundred eyes and said to themselves with a sense of wonder and awe, "I...exist. I...am."

None of the flies knew what to do with this information. They buzzed around for awhile and walked on ceilings and ate some random garbage and pretty much continued their pre-sentient behavior. But then, through the grapevine, word started spreading. Someone had heard that the average lifespan of the household fly was two weeks.

Could this be? There was much talk and a committee was formed to look into the matter. Sure enough, the committee reported its findings in the positive: their lives were indeed finite.

"What should we do?" cried one fly in its tiny, supersonic voice. The flies looked, looked, looked and looked around. They beat their wings nervously. Finally, one adventurous fly raised its little voice. "Well...I guess we should raise some hell."

The next three days were not a pleasant time on this planet. Chaos ruled the skies and anarchy bred in dumpsters. A favorite trick, and the one that gained the greatest notoriety, was the following:

A group of 50,000 to 100,000 flies would gather near a suburban home. Keeping as still as possible, they would hover outside the front door. Fifty flies would gather en masse -- these were known as the kamikaze flies, because of the volunteered death mission. Their names were recorded and all etched in a stone in southeast Louisiana by the sturdy horseflies there, master craftsmen all.

These fifty flies would fling themselves as fast as possible to the doorbell, instantly killing themselves as they depressed the button inwards. The inhabitant, perhaps thinking it was a friendly call from their neighbor, there to sip coffee and discuss "just what the hell has gotten into all these flies, anyway?" would open the door, to which the flies would swarm in as a group.

Candles would overturn, gas stoves would laboriously be turned on, and carnage would usually erupt. The situation got so bad that the President of the United States had to go on television and declare a national Human Doorknock Sign, which by Congressional vote was determined to be the beloved "Shave and a haircut" rap. Under no circumstances were citizens to open their doors unless they heard this code.

As guessed, the inevitable finally happened. Flies started questioning their existence. A religion was formed -- a cloudy, unclear series of rituals that experts say involved something about a giant, moldy, half-eaten package of Twinkies the size of the sun.

The flies started ganging up, usually among geographical lines. The Connecticut flies would argue on why they should stay and starve in their clean streets, when practically next door, the New York landscape would provide plenty for all?

Skirmishes broke out, then battles, then outright wars. Then, one tumultuous day that will forever be known as "Buzz Tuesday," the entire fly population gathered over the sleepy town of Lawrence, Kansas, and had a cataclysmic, almost apocalyptic, fight to the finish. Not a wing was left twitching, and the city eventually had to be evacuated, dozed over, and started again from scratch.

And now, sometimes, my grandson will come for a visit, and he'll say, "I heard an old man in a park say that he was like'fly in the ointment.'What does that mean, Grampy? What are flies?"

"Never you mind, boy," I say, chuckling. "Never you mind."