Dwight the Drone

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, late May.  The sun was shining as I stood on the steps of a high rise, studying the blue blue sky.  I was neat, clean and gassed up with fuel stored by my sisters (half-sisters, actually - same mother who chose not to share the proceeds of her sugar daddies with me.) I was a cool dude and I didn’t care who knew it. 


It was time to go.  I flexed my muscular, toned thorax and stretched my lustrous wings so that the sun reflected off the sheen, dazzling the sisters, foolish slaves to their genes, who were returning home from a shopping expedition.  With one kick I was airborne and back in the hunt.


I headed south west; previous jaunts had showed that was where the best dames hang out.  Cruising at 65’ with the speed control set at 15 mph, it took only 12 minutes to arrive at my destination. 


I recognized it as soon as I saw it.  It was big, the ceiling was high, and the red carpet was as rich and deep as the blood of a wounded deer seeping into snow.   Once again I regretted not being able to see red.  


I circled the room, casing the joint.  Rivals, petty and inadequate as they were, circled and spiraled; clearly I had no competition to speak of.    I sat back, watching and waiting for the right opportunity. 


And then I saw her.    She was trouble but she was worth a stare.  Her six legs streamed behind her - they seemed to be arranged to attract attention.  They were visible well above the knee and one of them to the abdomen, which itself was small and compact and capable of expansion.  The legs were dimpled and clean, not like the hairy  corbicula of my half-sisters, dappled with carelessly strewn bits of pollen. Ms Regina was slim with enough melodic line for a tone poem. She was rangy and strong-looking.  Her 2500 eyes were open and alert.  She had a good proboscis and a sulky droop to her lower maxilla.


She was worthy of being the mother of my two million children, her lack of maternal instinct notwithstanding. 


I made my move.  With an alluring RAM (rapid antennae movement) I launched myself in her direction.  I’m discrete - as tight as a vault with a busted lock. Valor is the better part of discretion.    As a suitor, better never than late. She was coy, turned her back and flew higher, abdomen waggling suggestively.  I followed, rival suitors falling by the wayside.  Her conditioned proboscis response was increasing; I knew she was interested. At 80’ she slowed and I circled.  She spiraled upward and I trailed behind.  At 100’ she leveled out and not being one to mince words or waste time, I moved in.   


There was evidence of a previous suitor blocking my final approach. I cursed silently, a gentleman to the core (so to speak.)  Ms Regina clearly was not one to limit her favors.  Deftly I removed it, backed up, re-set my sights and approached again.  This was the moment I lived for, the culmination of my mission in life, my gift to eternity, the reason I was born, and the first of many sorties vindicating my superiority as a male. 


I twisted over, flying upside down, made contact and ...






Dwight the Drone

b. May 3, 2013, d. May 24 2013.

“Sex pretty much cures everything.” (Chuck Palahniuk) 



with apologies to Raymond Chandler. 






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Latest comments

27.11 | 16:01

Moustache, wax? Of course. Now if all of the drones had mustaches ...

27.11 | 12:43

One of our club members says he got into beekeeping in order to make his own mustache wax. There's the explanation for the bearded/mustached ABF attendees!

13.08 | 05:43

Good morning Mr. Barnes, I'm so pleased to see the best of history teachers is still going strong! Looking at your website brings back some great memories

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