Dines on Shit wandered back into the house at medium altitude, followed closely by Searches for Shit. Upon entering the living room they made a fortuitous discovery. Despite half the day gone, the humans still hadn't cleaned up from the night before. Their mess remained -- TV remotes, bags of chips, a large bowl of popcorn, shoes and socks, and the same glasses of beer. Dines on Shit's facets took it all in at a glance. He made a large circle, up by the ceiling. Searches for Shit's buzzing told him that he was still following.

There was no sign of people or Badbreath or Bigsmelly. Searches for Shit was the first to roll over and fall straight down. Dines on Shit rolled and gave chase, but there was no catching his cousin once he was focused on beer. They met on the rim and ran down into the glass together. They drank their fill and lazily made their way back through the foam and started walking up to the rim.

The glass tilted. They both froze. There was an undulating motion. Dines on Shit had a distorted view through the glass, but it was clear enough that a human was carrying it. They buzzed out of the glass as fast as their wings could carry them. Dines on Shit was so drunk he couldn't fly straight. The human's free hand swiped and missed, but the disturbed air flipped them over and sent them tumbling in different directions. Dines on Shit powered away from the human and into the living room. He climbed up, unsteady with beer, and reached the molding. Searches for Shit landed beside him and immediately fell over. They laughed until their bellies cramped.

"That was close," said Dines on Shit when he had regained his composure.

"I hate Fatfuck," said his cousin. "He almost got me."

"I'm going to cut back on drinking."

His cousin hiccupped. "Why?"

Why, indeed? It wasn't as if they had careers or families to take care of. "There has to be more to life."

Pleasantly drunk, the cousins fell into a slumber high up on the molding, and so passed the afternoon. The evening brought the noise of humans. They awakened feeling groggy and hungry.

"Come on," said Searches for Shit. "Let's go to the kitchen. Maybe they left food out."

They probably had, thought Dines on Shit, but it was a poor substitute for Shit. He knew his cousin's true purpose. They buzzed into the kitchen where they found the standard mess. There were dishes everywhere and some half eaten lemon bars sitting in a baking pan. Dines on Shit made for the bars while his cousin glided away on a slightly different path.

As he took a bite of the flavorless human food, his cousin crawled into a beer glass. Nobody was around, so they took their time. The woman of the house, an old gal with gray hair and a deep hatred of flies, did the cooking for the humans, and her skill left something to be desired. After three bites he couldn't stomach anymore. He joined Searches for Shit in the beer glass.

Getting back to the molding in the living room was difficult. He was so drunk, the room spun. He kept hitting the wall half way up, and he'd have to start his approach again. His cousin had it even worse. He kept losing altitude. Dines on Shit gained the molding and, just as he stopped his wings, saw an orange flash down below. He laid back and tried to get the room to stop spinning, but the room was stubborn. He passed out. He awoke some hours later. There was no sign of Searches for Shit. Still half drunk, he flew unsteadily around the house. Perhaps he had found some Shit somewhere.

In the morning he was late again for the meeting. And it was there, as the first order of business, that he learned Searches for Shit had fallen to Badbreath. He was in shock. He couldn't breathe. The dumb animal was fast, but he was easily outsmarted. Plus it couldn't fly! How could this have happened? The Elder said the words, "Nevermore shall he buzz." That's when it hit home. His cousin was not coming back. Dines on Shit's world suddenly felt oppressive. He cried.

He spent much of the next week with Aglow with Shit. She provided much needed comfort. Each day passed slowly and bleakly. He didn't drink any alcohol, and he barely ate. Shit tasted bland. Aglow with Shit had to cajole him to take his meals. Soon even she couldn't make him feel better. He buzzed around the house without purpose, steering clear of the humans and their dumb animals, especially the murderer. For sustenance he'd light upon a crumb or stale tortilla chip, and the only thing less appetizing than a tortilla chip was a stale tortilla chip.

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One afternoon he woke up and decided it was time to go. He started his wings and flew out of the house. He ignored the other flies and kept going. He must have gone ten houses down before stopping on a wooden utility pole that smelled of tar. He forced his mind from his cousin and the past, and took flight again.

He had no idea the humans were so numerous. There was no end to their houses and streets and cars. So much stuff and so much noise. It didn't take a genius to see that the stuff was created specifically to make noise. In the midst of it all, going solo was working out alright for Dines on Shit. There was plenty to eat, thanks to dogs whose masters didn't clean up after them. And he buzzed into any place he felt like, heedless of angry humans and fly swatters and the evil-eyed cats. Whatever came, came.

One afternoon he buzzed into a new kind of place. The humans were numerous and noisy, with food everywhere. And drinks. Glasses of beer sat at every table. The beer varied in color from light yellow to reddish to dark brown to black. Dines on Shit thought there was only the light yellow kind because that's all Fatfuck and the rest of 'em drank at the house.

It was all too tempting. Other flies were around, so he blended in well. A group of four humans got up and left. All the dishes remained on the table. Dines on Shit plummeted from the rafters, flared just above the long, wooden table, and set down beside a large puddle of black beer. He licked his front legs a tad, then lowered his head directly into the puddle. He didn't sip at it like British royalty lifting the tea glass, he gulped like he had just crawled out of the Sahara and this was fresh, clean water. It was the best tasting beer he'd ever had. This, right here, was real beer with real flavor, and it proved that Fatfuck and his family were cheap sons of bitches.

He got so drunk he couldn't fly. He tried to run and find a hiding place, but not one of his six legs was up for it. He fell down embarrassingly at each attempt. The dishes were cleared, and he remained in place. A new group of humans sat down, and he remained in place. He half crawled and half dragged himself under a napkin. The napkin was picked up, leaving him exposed. Nothing happened. The wood was dark, so maybe he blended in.

The table was empty again before he regained his senses and could walk. He started his wings and slowly made his way up to the rafters, where he found a secluded perch and went to sleep.

Inside of two weeks he had a new identity. It began with a near death experience. He was kneeling beside a puddle of black beer, sucking in the goodness. A hand came down. He was too drunk to get away, so that was it. He didn't mind dying. Another hand reached over and stopped the first one.

"Wait," the second human said.

Dines on Shit looked up with blurry facets, but was too drunk to understand what was happening, so he returned to the puddle and kept drinking.

"He likes beer," said the first human. "That's so funny. Can they get drunk?"

The second one pushed Dines on Shit gently with a finger. He buzzed his wings, but it wasn't the correct pattern for lift-off, and the buzz was too slow for flying. He lifted off a couple of millimeters, rolled over, and landed on his back. Four human faces leaned over him. Everything spun wildly. The humans laughed.

Every night after Dines on Shit ventured out in search of Shit, he came to the tables and landed by a beer puddle. Humans gathered around. He sensed that they wouldn't harm him so long as they were amused. He hammed it up a little. He flew in tight, unstable circles, or fell down when he walked. More often than not, it was no act. The humans were delighted. A regular customer, a thin guy with a heavily tattooed woman, named him Tom, and it stuck. So he became Tom the drunk. Tom became a minor celebrity in the place. He drank and goofed off; they oohed and aahed.

With practice he could fly well enough to attain the rafters while extremely intoxicated. After the crowd petered out, he'd head up for bed. If he wasn't too drunk to get it up, he'd cuff the governor while thinking about Aglow with Shit. Sometimes, for need of variety, he'd knock one out to a childhood friend's mother, No Shit Sad Now. She had a way of settling her wings just after landing that got him hard, and not just a run-of-the-mill hard, but a deep, core hard, the kind that begs for action, almost demands action. Just looking at her had made him want to ram his flystick in and out of her. For the love of Shit, she had been nice looking. He got a lot of mileage thinking of that royal rump peeking out from behind those folded wings. Unfortunately she was no longer with the community. Unable to wait for lunch one afternoon, she had buzzed too close to Bigsmelly. He snapped at her and got lucky. Nevermore shall she buzz.

Masturbation was one area where Dines on Shit felt bad for the humans. For all their arrogance (top of the food chain and all that), they only had two hands. But it was worse than that. He overheard Fatfuck saying he used his left hand because it didn't feel like his own. That left a single hand with which to attend parliament. That was sad. What kind of symphony had a single musician? Despite their love of murder (swatters and all that), their whole species had been short changed. Flies took for granted that they had three hands ready for duty. You couldn't use the rear ones because they provided stability, and you had a dominant hand forward, so that was out. That left two middle hands and the other front one. And the things you could do with three!! Holy Shit, it was amazing. It rose to the level of art. With a practiced hand, and Dines on Shit was well practiced, it was a very fine art indeed.