There’s French fries, and then there’s French flies. The former is, arguably, what one thinks of most when the word “French” comes to mind. Apart from “snooty.” Which brings us to the latter. French flies. Although many assume all flies are the same—mercilessly annoying—the French flies stand apart from other “breeds” in that they are far more particular on what—or rather, who—they will land on. Émile had trouble explaining this to the other non-French flies he occasionally encountered in Menton. Usually, these non-French flies were Italian strays from bordering towns like Ventimiglia and Bordighera. For whatever reason, they had managed to prove among the ilk with more extraordinary flying abilities in terms of distance, likely driven by their sense of smell; led, in four-mile increments, to some “pleasant” rich person’s stench on the French Riviera as opposed to the Italian one.

That was surprising to Émile, who, in his self-superior Frenchness, thought that Italians actually smelled worse, therefore should be more attractive to flies who ought to stay “in their place” on the Italian side. Plus, he wanted the rich French people on the riviera for his “own kind,” not to have to share them with any Italian flies. Those greedy, borderless fucks. Worse still, they tended to show up in clusters, feeding off the other’s energy and sense of direction as much as the odor of carbon dioxide. Émile was a cluster fly as well—one who found himself in the unique position of being something of a “leader.” And, as much as flies are written off as “daft,” they knew a good leader when they saw one. That much Émile embodied, for he always seemed to know where the best rich person to land on and “feed off of” could be found.

More often than not, Plage du Casino had plenty of foul-smelling humans to choose from. But again, not just any foul-smellingness, but the right kind of foul-smellingness. Almost like being a connoisseur of fine wine, so, too, was Émile a connoisseur of fine putridity in humans. Nothing too overpowering, per se, but rather, a highly sophisticated and subtle level of pungency. Although Émile had only been the leader of his cluster for about fifteen days—just halfway through his lifespan—he was the most adept at honing in on what his “brethren” wanted. Even before they themselves really knew what they wanted. In this way, they took easily to following Émile wherever he might go. It removed the guesswork from things. And since they were all somewhat aware of a sense of ephemerality in terms of their “existential longevity,” deferring to Émile became the effortless norm.

It was only after the arrival of another “leader” type named Pasquale from Bordighera that the French flies formerly under Émile’s influence started to turn on him. Started to forget what it meant to be a French fly. And what it (should have) meant was to have some taste, some fucking discernment. It seemed they forgot all about that as soon as Pasquale materialized from his inferior riviera to remind them that “skin is skin.” And that, if you wanted to “sop up” the moisture from humans, well, it didn’t really matter who you chose. They all had plenty of scrumptious sweat to spare.

Thus, Émile was left no choice but to watch his erstwhile cluster turn their hairy behinds on him as they proceeded to ignore everything he had once taught them—how to avoid brinier humans and focus instead on those with a more intense decaying organic filth smell. This is part of why the French Riviera was such a delight to flies: it was filled with old people. They were, after all, the ones with the most money. Therefore irresistibly attracted to the French Riviera as much as flies were attracted to rotting meat. And they found plenty of that in Menton as well, what with the alleys of various restaurants filled with so much sumptuous garbage. Including the meat deemed “unworthy” or otherwise left on people’s plates to be tossed out. And then there were all those gray crotches to gravitate toward on the beach, to boot. Oh how deliciously rotting they smelled, no matter what vaginoplasty lengths these women went to so as to throw humans off the scent of reality. But no fly could be duped by such trickery.

Nonetheless, despite the wealth of “fine dining” available to the discriminating French fly, all of Émile’s hard work pertaining to his “training” of the cluster had dissipated into the ether (like carbon dioxide). The flies he had once shepherded were now suddenly landing on any person they happened to smell or see. This being a result of heeding Pasquale’s “tutelage.” But where Pasquale ultimately led them to was a premature death. Something that gave Émile only some modicum of satisfaction. Because, sure, it was nice to know he was right to have held fast to his “hoity-toity” tastes, but it was also disarming to realize that he was really and truly all alone. Something he had never experienced since the day of his hatching. It was enough to make him lose his appetite, this demise of his former brotherhood as a result of some lethal insecticide sprayed by an overly vexed restaurant owner who had had it up to here with customers’ complaints about all the flies that had been buzzing around them of late. Interrupting their precious meals. As though human consumption was somehow more “hallowed” than a fly’s. Fuck that, Émile thought as he proceeded to bang the shit out of some lady fly he had come across in passing, remembering it was his duty to reproduce as retaliation for all the deaths the humans had inflicted upon his family, foolishly believing that to kill one fly was to avoid the spawning of at least three new ones in its place.

Émile might have lost his original purpose in setting the standard for how to be a French fly, but he regained it after witnessing Pasquale lead his class to a well of false promise. It reinvigorated him with the determination to reproduce as many French flies as he could, ideally with seven-day-old females. But, considering his own time was about to run out in roughly three days, he couldn’t exactly be too particular. For once. Still, better to be particular about sweat and skin “consistencies” than about who his next fuck was. Or so he thought. Because, apparently, his “geriatric” stage of existence had caused him to overlook who his final fuck would turn out to be: an Italian fly. Hailing from none other than the same place as Pasquale. And with his last gasping breath, all Émile could croak out to the Italian mosca was, “Leur donner des noms français!” Because if they couldn’t act French (instead damned to act haphazardly in their Italianness), at least they could be named something French.