PeteTV Up Next



          The place is your typical after-work bar, the only difference is that itís swarming with flies.  That's right, flies.  There are houseflies, blowflies, and horseflies, then there are accountant flies, middle-management flies, and sales flies, and they are all packed wing to wing at the crowded bar.  The place is so crowded there are even flies on the wall.  The sign above the bar reads: The Fecal Begal.


          Norman, who is just your regular fly, stands at the bar nursing a tall mug of yellow liquid.  He takes a deep sip from the drink and sets it back down on the bar.


          The front door to the Begal pops open and three flies buzz inside.  One of them, Morty, slowly makes his way up the crowded bar, looking left and right until he spots Norman.  Morty joins Norman at the bar, who nudges his way sideways to make space for him.


          "Howís it buzzing, Morty?" Norman asks.


          "Not bad, Norman.  Boy, do I need a drink."


Morty catches the bartenderís eye.  The bartender sidles over.


          "Whatíll it be?" the bartender asks.


          "What do you got on tap?" Morty asks, searching for the drink list on the mirror behind the bar.


          "We got donkey.  We got camel.  Oh, and we got something brand new.  Itís called coyote wicked."


          "You got any of those micro-pees?"


          "Just one," the bartender answers, "Chihuahua."


          "That sounds good.  Give me the Chihuahua."


          "Coming right up," the bartender goes off to fetch him the brew.


          Morty turns to Norm.  He looks worn out and tired. "Boy, what a day," Morty says, "thank God itís flyday."


          "Thatís for sure."


          Morty grabs a handful of black crusty balls from a bowl on the bar and pops them into his mouth.  He immediately spits them out.


          "Yecch.  This stuff hardly even tastes like crap."


The bartender returns with a steaming mug of pee.  "Here you go."


Morty takes it.  "Thanks.  And could you get us another bowl.  This stuff doesn't even taste like shit."


"No problem," the bartender says and goes off the bar.


Morty takes a deep gulp from the steaming yellow liquid, draining half the glass in one gulp.  "Whew.  Disgusting.  Makes me want to puke."


"That good, huh?" Norman asks.  Morty nods.  The two take sips together.


Morty looks around the place.  He nods his approval.  "Hell of a place you found here, Norman."


"You got to love the Fecal Begal.  Like they say, every pooper needs a party."


"You can say that again.  But it looks like theyíre letting in some pretty young ones?"


"Why do you say that?"


"Down at the end of the bar.  Didnít I see a grub?"


Norman turns, and sure enough, down at the far end of the bar, away from the front door, is an underage looking grub.


"Nah, thatís just Mary," Norman answer.  "Sheís plenty old, sheís just a slow developer."


The front door of the bar opens and another fly, drunk and disheveled, stumbles in.  Bleary eyed, with several days growth of beard, the fly has swatches of sticky yellow fly paper stuck all over him.  His name is Pete, and as he weaves his way up the bar, the other flies make way for him.


Pete reaches Morty and Norman at the bar.


"Wow, Pete," Norman says, "what happened to you?  You look like youíve been hit by a fly swatter."


"Hey guys," Pete answers, "you ready to get good and drunk?"


"Looks like youíre well on your way, "Morty says.


Pete waves the bartender over.  "Give me a shot of Johnny Walker Dead."


"You want a chaser with that?"


"Iíve got a mighty thirst for some horse pee-how about some Clysdale?"


"You got it, bud."


The bartender goes off and Peteís friends look him over with alarm.


"What happened to you, Pete?" Norman asks.


For a second, Pete looks like heís about to lose it.  His eyes mist up, his throat catches, and he swallows nervously.  Right then the bartender brings his drinks over, and Pete downs the shot and follows it with the chaser.  His confidence swells.


"You want to know what happened?  You really want to know what happened?"


Both Norm and Morty eagerly nod their heads.


"Well, two nights ago I was out late with Betty.  We were at a bar.  Now maybe I had too much to drink, and maybe Betty had too much to drink, because, on our way home, we had a little run in with some flypaper."  To prove his point Pete pulls at the flypaper stuck to his body, but the sticky yellow paper is stuck for good.


"You know what happens when you drink and fly, Pete," Norman says.


"Yeah, well, goodbye Betty.  Sheís stuck for good.  I barely got out myself."


"I guess that makes one less for dinner, huh?" Morty asks.


"Thatís right," Norman says, "where are our dinner reservations tonight, Morty?"


"A dead body just turned up in Central Park.  Weíve got reservations at Tavern on the Spleen."


Both turn their attention back to Pete, who, with his antenna just about drooping just down onto the bar, looks mighty depressed.


"Come on, Pete, donít worry.  Thereíll be others," Norman says.


"Yeah, I know, but itís not just that.  Before I left Betty she said she had something to tell me.  She said she wanted to come clean with me.  And you know what?  Betty had been cheating on me."


"No!" Morty says, "with who?"


"Who do you think?"


"It canít be.  Not him."


"Who else?  Assanova."


"Damn it!  Assanova gets all the babes," Norman says.


"I heard heís hung like a horsefly."


Again, the front door of the place bangs open and the oversized body of a fly fills the doorway.


"Well speak of the devil," Norman says, "look whoís here."


"Assanova," Pete declares and whips around to face the door.


"Just look at him," Norman says, "acting like his shit stinks."


Looking tough, Assanova swaggers up the bar.  As he reaches the three standing at the bar Pete steps out in front of him, blocking his path.  Assanova towers over the much smaller Pete.


"What are you doing, Pete?" Norman says, "youíre going to get yourself killed."


"Youíve been messing with my girl," Pete says.


"Bug off," Assanova growls.


Pete refuses to move.  Assanova swats at him, but Pete darts out of the way.


"I said shoofly," Assonova says.


"Youíve been breeding with Betty."


"Hmmm, Betty.  Letís see.  Didnít she just have a whole mess of kids?"


"Thatís right."


"Well I wouldnít be too surprised if a few hundred of them looked just like me."


"Thatís it!"  Pete reaches behind him and whips out a fly swatter.

"Uh oh, heís packing," yells the bartender and everyone hits the floor.  Everybody but Assanova, that is, who harldy looks bugged at all.  "Come on, take it outside," the bartender says totally hidden behind the bar.


"Whereíd you get that, Pete?" Norman asks, laid out on the floor.


"Donít you remember, Norm?  I used to be on the swat team."


"So you think youíre a tough fly?" Assanova says, "maybe you ought to put that away before someone gets hurt."


"Anyone gets hurt, itís going to be you."  Pete lunges forward and whacks Assanova with the fly swatter.  Assanova is injured, and he frantically hops around in circles.  Finally, the big fly settles down and faces Pete.


"Is that the best you got?" Assanova asks.  "Well lookee what I got here."  Assanova whips out a can of bug spray.  Pete sees it and backs up, eyes wide with fear.


"You know, youíre just a lousy no good barfly."  Assanova says and shoots a direct shot into Peteís face.  Pete drops to the ground like heís been shot.


Assanova calmly leans forward, lifts a foot onto Peteís back, calmy bends over, and rips off one of Peteís wings.  "There.  Now youíre wings have been clipped." 


Assanova calmly tosses the wing aside and saunters off down the bar.


Slowly, the other flies in the bar start to stand.  Norman and Morty rise to their feet.  Pete is still lying flat on his face.  His buddies help him up.


"I told you not to mess with him!" Norman says.


Like nothing had happened, Pete casually brushes himself off.  Then he waves the bartender over.  "Get us another round of drinks."


The bartender moves off.  Morty canít stop staring at Pete and shaking his head.  "I donít believe it, Pete," he says, "what are you going to do?"


"Ahh, who cares?" Pete answers.  "I never liked flying much anyway."