A mosquito was aging. Slowly dying as each tick of the clock went by, but it had one last duty before death.

It flew to a the closet source of water. Which just happened to be on a balcony on the third floor of a apartment complex — with alright rent, but why would a mosquito care.

She flew past the internally rusted and improperly installed metal rails, and hovered across the platform cement. The mosquitoes found her target — a statement pool of water in a crudely made ashtray, which was a shoe filed lined within with flexseal.

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The dying mosquito used all of her strength and landed on the water, laying her eggs before moments later succumbing to deaths cold grasp. Her body would become fuel for her children. 

Without her small and simple mind knowing, she would soon be the cause of the downfall of her kind.

In simple words, “Don’t fuck with an America’s gun. Don’t take a British tea away. And for the love of god if you bite a man, and make him itchy after long and tiring day, you fucked up.”

The clock of time ticked, and the threads of fate & chaos giggled at the thought of the dice rolls, coin tosses, and yoga sessions? that would soon ensue.

The apartment door opened, and in the background of evening sound was the sound of dice rolling and  the squeaks of hinges that need a good oiling.