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FOR THOSE KEEPING TRACK AT HOME, THIS IS THE 800th STORY POSTED ON THE BLOG! HOPE YOU ENJOY IT.

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Before the flies ever reached the back of the rust-splintered 1956 Chevrolet 5700 LCF stake-bed truck, there was already a problem chewing its way through Texas like a chainsaw in a brisket joint. The New World Screwworm fly—scientifically known as Cochliomyia hominivorax, or more colloquially, “the man-eater”—had begun creeping north from Panama, leaving a trail of misery in its tiny, winged wake. Unlike most flies that snack on already-dead meat, these pests had a disturbing taste for the living. The females laid eggs in wounds, and the larvae would burrow into healthy flesh, devouring it from the inside out. Livestock, pets, wildlife—even the occasional unlucky human—were all fair game. Entire herds of cattle were being lost in under two weeks, and the stench of rotting flesh wasn’t just bad for morale—it was bad for business.

To combat this menace, the USDA had revived an old Cold War-era solution: sterilized male flies. The theory was simple but effective. Breed billions of males, sterilize them with radiation, and dump them over the landscape like bug-based confetti. Since female screwworm flies only mate once in their lives, if she chose a sterile partner, the infestation stopped with her. It was clean, targeted, and had once worked wonders—decimating screwworm populations from the southern U.S. to Panama. Now, with infections once again crawling north, the plan was back on.

Locally, the situation escalated fast. Outdoor seating at the Dairy Twin became a no-go zone, with fly activity so intense the patio looked like a meat-scented hurricane. Patrons either took their Frito pies to-go or risked losing a bite to something with wings. Meanwhile, K-Bob’s saw a sharp rise in indoor diners, though their Salad Wagon became a dubious proposition. The ranch dressing alone could’ve doubled as a fly attractant.

By the time the first batch of sterilized New World Screwworm flies were loaded into the back of the rust-splintered 1956 Chevrolet 5700 LCF stake-bed truck, Fort Stockton was already two days behind schedule and three contracts into a state of plausible deniability.

The truck, officially requisitioned by the USDA for the noble mission of saving the beef industry, had been “borrowed” from Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formalwear, where it previously served as a mobile tuxedo showroom and occasional beer run chariot. The driver’s seat was patched with duct tape, the temperature knob for the heater was long gone, and the brakes hadn’t worked properly since the second Bush administration.

“Don’t worry,” said Goodman. “That dump bed’s got a PTO lift strong enough to launch a Brahman bull into low orbit.”

Goodman Air, of course, being owned by Fort Stockton’s own mayor, airline operator, landlord, and part-time brothel accountant, had secured the federal fly distribution contract by underbidding the USDA’s original proposal by a cool $47, a side of brisket, and a phone call to the Texas attorney general’s mistress. Nobody questioned it, mostly because the USDA representative had already eaten the brisket and was now napping in Room #7 of the Naughty Pine Motel.

The plan was simple: Breed sterile screwworm flies at The Facility north of town — a repurposed concrete shell that used to be a high school gymnasium and, before that, a roller rink called Skatemania — then truck them down to the Fort Stockton Regional Airport and Feed Lot (yes, it serves both purposes), where Goodman Air would load them into a trio of decades-old crop dusters and drop them in a grid pattern over Texas and northern Mexico. Easy.

Reality, as it tends to do in Fort Stockton, had other plans.

The Facility, overseen by Dr. Cassandra Olds (no relation to the car brand, but she didn’t correct anyone), was producing larval screwworms by the plastic tubful. The larvae, affectionately called “wigglers” by the staff, were fed a nutritious slurry of powdered eggs, red blood cells, and molasses, all mixed in industrial bread mixers donated by the defunct Fort Stockton Muffin Emporium. The larvae matured into pupae that looked disturbingly like chocolate-covered raisins with an agenda. These were then boxed, irradiated, and left to cool in the walk-in meat locker that still bore a faded sign reading “Save Room for Jesus.”

The issue wasn’t the science.

It was the truck.

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Angus Hopper had the honor of piloting the Chevy 5700 for the inaugural load to the airport. The truck, being entirely mechanical and resentful of modernity, took fifteen minutes to start and another ten to remember what second gear was. As Hopper rolled out of The Facility, one of the wooden stake panels on the bed popped loose, spilling a wave of sterile pupae across the county road. Crows swooped down immediately. Somewhere, nature wept.

When he did make it to the airport—located between the feedlot and the county dump, just past the sign that says “You Sure You Wanna Do This?”—things somehow got worse.

The planes were supposed to be specially equipped for sterile fly dispersal. Instead, Goodman Air had retrofitted old crop dusters with homemade release chutes made from PVC pipe and converted leaf blowers. The flies were stored in used Dairy Twin milkshake cups labeled with names like “Buzz Lightyear” and “Maggot McFly.”

Lucinda, who’d been hired to “manage logistics” (which mostly meant writing the names on the cups), sat cross-legged on an old barstool by the tarmac, looking down at the hundreds of labeled containers and muttering, “Lord help us all.”

The first flight took off at 4:17 p.m., already 37 minutes behind schedule. It flew for six minutes, then promptly crash-landed in a cotton field outside Balmorhea after the pilot, Trixie’s ex-boyfriend Beau Sanderson, mistook a cow for a runway marker.

The flies survived.

Meanwhile, the Naughty Pine filled with out-of-town journalists and ag bloggers looking for the next big scoop. Trixie offered press tours for $5 and a Lone Star tallboy. Pastor Peterson tried to hold a prayer circle to “deliver us from the plague of irradiated air vermin,” but the turnout was poor. Even Sister Thelma called it “some Old Testament bulls**t,” and she was not one normally given to potty language.

The second plane never left the ground. The leaf blower malfunctioned mid-taxi, sucking up a handful of pupae and launching them through the cockpit at 120 mph. Delgado was briefly blinded but claimed later, “I saw God, and He looked like a fly in a flight helmet.”

By the time the third plane lifted off, darkness had fallen. Its lights didn’t work, and its altimeter was, in fact, a barometer from Rusty Hammer’s hardware store. The pilot, a barely sober man named Goosewhistle Pete, hadn’t flown anything since 1989 and thought he was heading to Laredo. He dropped 400,000 sterile screwworm flies over the parking lot of a Buc-ee’s in Del Rio.

Social media exploded.

Within 24 hours, conspiracy theories began to swirl: The flies were CIA surveillance drones. The flies were a Chinese plot to poison Tex-Mex. The flies were Goodman’s attempt to distract voters from his secret child support lawsuit with a Scuttlebutt waitress named Cinnamon.

The USDA, naturally, issued a statement: “The Fort Stockton operation is proceeding with minor, expected challenges. We appreciate the dedication of local contractors and are confident in the program’s success.”

Then came the mutiny.

Angus Hopper refused to do another run unless he got hazard pay and a new seat cushion. Lucinda faked a back injury and claimed to be allergic to pupae dust. Rusty Hammer barricaded his store after someone tried to return a box of fly pupae labeled “emotional support maggots.”

Goodman, however, was unfazed. He held a press conference at the Scuttlebutt, flanked by two dancers dressed as World War II bomber pilots and a papier-mâché screwworm mascot named “Sterlie.” He promised results.

“Some towns get bridges. Some get bypassed. But Fort Stockton? We get history,” he said, as the mascot began to disintegrate under stage lights.

In the end, 1.3 billion flies were dropped, though only about 70% of them were sterile due to a “labeling mishap” in the meat locker. The screwworm population? Still under review. The beef industry? Cautiously optimistic. The citizens of Fort Stockton? Armed with flyswatters and doubt.

And the 1956 Chevrolet 5700? Still parked behind the Naughty Pine Motel, bed raised, the scent of molasses and blood in the air, buzzing faintly with the sound of a job well botched.

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