The Banana Fly Colony

Darkness sinks itself upon Coppercoin Street 30. Time ticks slowly past the number 12 on the kitchen clock. Both arms, pointing straight up. That means it's night. Late.
And in apartment 90, the Poet is still up. Still standing strong. Fixing things. Mending them. Taking care of stuff that should'ave been fixed ages ago. Might as well do them now as any other time. And why not? She's awake, isn't she? So what if the Ruby's gone to sleep? He aint supposed to help her out anyhow. It's her turn to fix. Fix and mend. So she does.
Weirdly enough, things almost shine around the apartment. Rise and shine. Cause all of a sudden, the Poet's been struck by some kind of cleaning mania. Clean one room no longer means, pick up the dirty clothes on the floor. It means: pick up everything that is lying around. Sort and throw out with the trash. Move the remaining things to the next room. Spray, wipe, hoover, mop the floors. Wait til it's dry. Move the stuff back in, carpet on, and tadaa! Look how nice it looks. Well, with the existing conditions in consideration, snapping a shot of this home could almost earn you a place in the upcoming IKEA catalogue.
Wonder how long that'll last.
The most challenging thing so far has been trying to find out where all the banana flies come from. Seems they've built themselves some kind of colony somewhere. Most likely in the kitchen. It's had a funny smell lately, but the Poet's just figured it's the trash. Should take it out. But when she's done that, the smell is still present. So it's just down to tracking your old hunting instincts up, putting the rubber gloves on, and dig in.
The kitchen has now been transformed into a jungle. There are dangers everywhere, and possibly booby traps. Gotta be careful where you put your foot around here, and where you stop to rest. The Poet smells and sniffs. Looks around for a sign of the fly colony. Hmm... there's one. A banana fly. Tiny one, but still. If it's just been hatched, it should be staying pretty close to home, as not to get lost. The Poet pulls her ears back and starts sneaking. Slowly... don't want to wake anything. She lifts a leaf or two, looking under them. No success. This part of the jungle is still to clean to holster anything that would make them flies hatch like that. Moving on.
The Poet takes a deep breath. Never has she been so far away from home, and never has the jungle been so intimidating. Cause she's closing in now. She prepares herself with her secret weapon. Steps closer. Holding her breath. Another banana fly half-heartedly soars by. Dozing... means it's just had its meal. Should be very, very close by now...
And suddenly...
There...
There it is.
The Poet hurriedly covers her eyes for protection from the horror ahead. The nest is huge! Greenish, greyish, sort of spots all over it, and in and out of it, the banana flies are zooming, feeding from the long lost life of what has provided them a home, the long lost life of...
Spaghetti. Is that really what it is?
The Poet awkwardly steps closer to inspect, and seconds later, she confirms. This has once been a spaghetti bowl, ages and ages ago. Unrecognizable now, of course. Hostile, to anyone but the weather-beaten (oh yes. The Poet looked the word up. It is, believe it or not, how it is actually said.) rejects of society - the banana flies. It is a dangerous place to stick around at for too long, even for someone as experienced in kitchen fighting as the Poet. Something needs to be done, and quickly. The flies must be diverted... so that an attack can be directed strictly at the heart of their nest. That should finish them and keep them away, at least for the most immediate of future.
Dramatically gesturing, The Poet rushes towards the nest, shouting an own-composed war jingle while she does it, and the surprise element of her attack actually scares off most of the flies. But she is very well aware, that they won't be gone for long. They will see through her diversion, and the next step of her plan, and return with backup. Bigger... nastier... banana flies. She must act quickly, very quickly, in order to save herself from this cruel fate.
The Poet raises her secret weapon, flings herself forwards to the nauseating nest in her attempt to neutralize this disturbing threat, her weapon is raised to the very maximum height possible, she must act now, act now, save us, save us all from the flies...!
The Poet squeezes the trigger...
The former spaghetti bowl is slowly being covered in washing-up liquid. The foam is rising to the edges of the bowl. Then the Poet flips over the bowl, most of the nest goes down the drain. The rest she scoops up and throws in the trash can. Empties the trash can, takes out the trash, heads back inside.
In the jungle, things are quite still again. And not a banana fly to be seen.
All thanks to the heroic efforts of THE POET IN THE JAR. Thank you for reading this far...