Melancholy sits at his kitchen table, eating breakfast. He sees a small black dot appear next to his coffee cup. The speck is so tiny that, without his glasses, he can't quite tell what it is. A Crumb? Dust?

"Hello," says the small black dot. "I'm Thaddeus Flea."

Instead of saying anything in return, Melancholy Dog attempts to crush him with his thumb. The flea, however, jumps quickly to the side and avoids being flattened.

"Hoo," Thaddeus says. "That was close. Doing well today?"

Melancholy ignores him and goes back to reading the newspaper.

"Believe me, I quite understand your feelings," continues the flea. "But I felt an introduction was in order. It's the least I can do since I will soon be... well, feasting upon you. Wish there were a better way of putting that, but yes, you and I seem to be locked into a parasitical relationship."

Without taking his eyes off of the business section, Melancholy says, "Spare me the introduction. Fleas are disgusting."

"A stereotype, I assure you," Thaddeus replies. "I, for example, am quite meticulous in my grooming habits."

"You eat blood. You steal blood."

"True, but I hardly have a choice in the matter. I must eat as my biology dictates. Are you vegan?"

"No."

"Well, there you go. You eat the flesh and assorted produce of other animals; I'm not sure I see the difference."

Melancholy sips his coffee contemplatively and replies, "Hmm. I take your meaning. However, if one is to..."

Suddenly, Melancholy smacks his fist onto the table, hoping to squish an unsuspecting Thaddeus... but to no avail.

"Kudos!" cries the flea. "Really, your reflexes are first rate. It was mere luck on my part to have survived."

Thaddeus stares at Melancholy, tensing his legs in case another squish-attempting is immanent. Melancholy stares back. Slowly, he puts on his glasses and begins to squint his eyes, asking, "Are you wearing a suit?"

"Yes," replies the flea. "I think I'm allowed at least one concession to vanity."

"Where the hell does a flea get a suit?"

"You don't really want to know," says Thaddeus.

"Actually I do. I'm curious. Where does a flea get a suit?"

"The flea-tailor."

Melancholy stares at the flea before finally saying, "Well, you were right. I did not want to know that."

Thaddeus laughs. "The idea bothers you, doesn't it? That a flea might wear a suit or work at a profession? Such a thing might humanize us, make us harder to stereotype and loathe."

"Humanize? That's not even possible! You're insects, not primates. It... what? ‘Fleaminizes’ you? Er, that doesn't sound right. Whatever it does, it's hardly an improvement. A blood-thief in a suit is still a blood-thief."

"Well put," says Thaddeus. "And I do hope you're enjoying that bacon there... carnivore."

"Omnivore. I'm an omnivore. It's, um...totally different."

The black dot that is Thaddeus Flea disappears. Seconds later Melancholy feels a tiny bite on his left wrist. He scratches furiously, only to feel another tiny bite on his right elbow.

And so on.