There’s a fly buzzing around. Actually, he’s very quiet. I chase him with a folded magazine as he flies from table to counter to bookshelves to the television.

Good Morning America is on, and the fly has landed on George Stephanopoulos. It’s on his forehead. I move in cautiously, silently, I don’t think he’s on to me; I’ve been wrong before.

He’s twitching as I move the magazine with my hand, placing power in it from my forearm. The fly sits still now. And just as I swing with my follow-though, he takes off.

Stephanopoulos has been struck. I hope he doesn’t file charges.