This unusually brief story appears in my collection Sleepytime Cemetery. It’s short, but long enough for a happy ending.

THE FUNERAL DINNER

Little Tommy sat under a tree, pulling the wings off flies. When he pulled the wings off one, he tossed it onto the grass, where it died. He then plucked the next one from a jar, where he’d corralled them, being careful not to release the others.
Fly after fly buzzed to him, “Stop it! Put me down! Don’t hurt me!”
He paid no attention to their pleas, and continued his cruel routine, pausing now and then to take a swig of cola.
The flies in the jar were quite upset.
“How can we stop him?” one asked.
“He’s bigger than all of us put together,” said another.
“Maybe I can fly into his eye, and blind him,” another suggested.
“He holds on too tight,” another said. “Just look at him.”
“I have an idea,” said yet another.
“What’s that?” several asked.
“I’m harboring many robust specimens of bacillus anthracis. If he grabs me, I’ll give him anthrax.”
The others approved the idea.
Eventually, Tommy did pick the fly with the bacteria. As it traveled to its doom, the others buzzed, “Make him inhale them! That’s usually fatal!”
It was. Many flies brought their children to the funeral dinner.