Anglers reckon that a good dry fly should cunningly mimic the real thing.
There are the right flies for morning. There are different flies for the evening rise.
And so on.
But the thing between Death's triumphant fingers was a fly from the dawn of time.
It was the fly in the primordial soup. It had bred on mammoth turds.
It wasn't a fly that bangs on window panes. It was a fly that drills through walls.
It was an insect that would crawl out from between the slats of the heaviest swat
dripping venom, and seeking revenge. Strange wings and dangling bits
stuck out all over it. It seemed to have a lot of teeth.
"What's it called?", said Mort?
I SHALL CALL IT - DEATH'S GLORY.
Death gave the thing a final admiring glance and stuck it into the hood of his robe."
Frankenfly by Jack Gartside.