The first fly to make it into my house every summer has no idea what a harrowing experience he is about to have. He will die. That's for sure. And he will die with the fresh memory of being stalked and terrorized by the world's greatest fly chaser. I have a black belt in fly fighting.

As soon as I see that first fly, my adrenalin starts pumping. I revert to the ancient hunter stage of human evolution. I call it "the annual return of the cave man."

Hunting seems to be a normal urge in men. But most men waste their time and ammunition on beautiful creatures that do not bother a soul on the planet while a billion flies roam free, spreading their stinking germs. Even in the finest restaurants, they swoop down and walk around in our food. It's an insult I have never been able to tolerate.

If every man out there trying to hide and ambush a sweet, beautiful, big-eyed deer would lay down that high-powered rifle and grab a fly swatter, we might be able to conquer this filthy enemy of humankind.

For many years I have hunted down the first fly of the season and taped the chase, blow-by-blow, with a little hand-held recorder. I send the tapes to my goofy sister who takes great pride in my prowess. On days with no promise of excitement, I take out an old fly chase tape and it's always good for a few squirts of adrenalin.

One year I taped a very long battle with a fly I named "Big Green Kamikaze," so named because he had dive-bombed me directly several times, smashing his scummy body into my clean face. It was a direct challenge to my manhood.

I had used some of my most diabolical tricks on "Big Green," like turning out all the lights in the house except the bathroom. The little demons will always go to the light. They will also escape under doors and that's what he must have done because he got out of that bathroom.

I returned to my typing and in minutes I heard him off in the distance revving up like a big bomber. Before I could grab my swatter he had crashed into the back of my neck, then circled back to my front and smashed into my nose.

He then went into a sneaky annoyance mode. He hid somewhere and just made that loud sound that only big green flies can make. After crawling around on the floor thinking he might be injured and lying flat on his back unable to take to his wings again, I spied him on my 4'x4' bird-watching window, way up high behind the blinds.

Slowly I eased the blinds up to get a clear shot at him. Quickly he moved down to the bottom of the window casement and made rude gestures with one hand while giving me a "Come on, Buster" motion with his other hand.

I blew my cool. You are in serious trouble in a fly chase when you blow your cool. Even a fly can outsmart an angry man. 

I leaned across my desk and made a wild swing, knocking off my computer and half of the stuff piled on my desk. I ended up back behind my desk with my head on the floor and my feet sticking up in the air. All this action was caught on the tape I sent to my sis when she lived in Florida.

I cracked a couple of ribs but "Big Green" paid the supreme price the next day when I enticed him back into the bathroom and taped up the bottom of the door.

This year I have one of those electric fly zappers shaped like a tennis racquet. I feel I have an unfair advantage. As B.B. King says, "The thrill is gone."