Chapter 8

“I’m thankful the fate of that Musca domestica was not repeated upon my appendage,” he told an early bird out for his worm on the pathway toward Hellier’s.

Still, after the fly, Frank had started to worry. He tried to resist any sexual urges going forward, scratched himself like a mule against a fencepost or a tree, and kept a knitted winter mitten on the top of the toilet tank to use whenever he had to urinate.

It was about two weeks later when Vaughn asked, “When did you last bathe, son?” He’d pinched his nose between two fingers while inquiring.

Frank hadn’t revealed he was now a human bug zapper. “It hasn’t been that long,” he’d fibbed. Then he screwed up his courage and bathed that very night, using a huge balled up bath towel wrapped around the plunger as his washcloth.