The Lord of the Flies as a Young Man

Bartleby Lawrence Zebub, age 10, was gobsmacked by the audacious, infantile ignorance of the science fair organizers. As the small-minded, weak-willed, mouth-breathing, ignoramus judges passed out top prizes to three baking soda-powered volcanos, Bart gripped his participation certificate tightly enough to send creases shooting through the paper. Full of rage, he boggled at the lack of foresight among the so-called adults, whose disregard of his groundbreaking work evidenced an inability to recognize genius even as it towered over the brainless efforts of blathering children. He found comfort by telling himself that their acknowledgment and accolades amounted to little more than the hooting and clapping of chimpanzees.

History would demonstrate the value of exposing houseflies to radioactive material, transmuting them over generations into gargantuan mutants fit to be ridden into battle as air cavalry. Bart had been breaking into homes under construction all summer and stealing smoke detectors, which contain minute amounts of the elements with which he irradiated his stock. Fed on table scraps, they had grown an average of 25%, indicating that he should have rideable flies by the time he entered high school.

Bart packed up his foamcore display, studded with pinned specimens demonstrating their growth, while glowering the whole time. He was going to tell his mom that they needed to move to Russia or perhaps North Korea, but he could no longer live in a place where his brilliance was consistently disrespected by the inferior intellects that surrounded him. He added the judges’ and winners’ names to his enemies list, vowing revenge.

As Bart waited for his ride, he stared at his list, imagining the day that he would return to mete out vengeance, astride an enormous fly, surrounded by swarms that would obey his commands. They’d see, they’d all see.