*The following information is 100% unadulterated, and uncensored, fact. Do with it what you will. You have been warned. Proceed with caution.
I’m afraid of spiders. Like, the type of afraid that won’t allow me to sleep in a room that has the cosmic stain of spider-soul. If I find a spider, it has to be killed (because the only thing worse than a spider is a missing spider) and I have to vacate the area for the next 24-48 hours or until the spider’s astral-plane aura has been super-scrubbed out of the ether. I’m talking, Mr. Clean that bastard’s ass right out of this world and out of the next too. Maybe I should mention that not only am I afraid of spiders, but I loathe them. I believe that they are evil incarnate and that it is my Noble Christian Duty to take as many of those suckers out of this world before one of them takes me with it. I see myself as something of a Samuel L. Jackson to the Arachnid World. I kick butt, I take names, and I scream obscenities as I do it. The only problem is that I am absolutely terrified of spiders. So, the prospect of actually getting close enough to one to hurl its bulbous butt back into whichever hell-hole it crawled out of is tantamount to playing Ring-Around-the-Landmine. These clashing pieces of my otherwise complementary set of neuroses, sometimes land me in a rather uncomfortable moral dilemma: do I do my duty and off this jackass or do I reduce myself to the blubbering lump that my brain insists we be… “for survival.”
Let me give you a for-instance. Last night, I, in stocking feet and carefree abandon, adventured into the garage for a cold beverage. Now, I should tell you that my garage is a maze of assorted crap and cardboard boxes, thanks to recent construction. The floor is littered with dead leaves and things that, when seen from an angle, resemble small mammals. So, I was in the garage, and in the half-light, ignoring the vaguely threatening shapes on the floor, until I brushed something with my scantily-clad foot and saw movement. Whipping my head around, resulting in a mild case of self-inflicted whip-lash, a sound entirely unlike any I have ever made burst like the Kool-Aid man right out of my mouth. Slipping and sliding a bit on the concrete, but finding traction on the stairs with the indoor-outdoor carpet--you know that crap? It’s like buzzed turf. Awful stuff— I burst through the door, slammed it shut, and promptly locked it.
For a second, I stood, bent at the waist, one hand firmly holding the door shut, the other firmly holding my heart in place, and gasped for air. My mom, looking terrified, whispered, “Is there an animal out there?” “I wish it were an animal!” I said between breaths. “I really wish that were a frickin’ animal.”
Together, we unlocked the door and, keeping constant vigilance, ventured back into the garage. There, on the floor among the refuse, was the biggest spider I have ever seen, outside of, like, Australia where everything actively wants to kill you. Not only was this thing huge, but it had shoes. They weren’t even shoes; they were platform boots like Gene Simmons wears. Hell, it even had Gene Simmons’s hair. This thing was the God of Thunder. Mom and I looked at this eight-eyed, Gene Simmons mash-up from Hell. For a moment I could imagine it, face painted, tongue out, armor on, four legs throwing the Rock Sign, and then we looked at each other and in unison said, “Well, now what?”
We certainly could not leave something of this size and magnitude to its own devices. Besides, being the Arachnid God of Thunder, who knew what mischief, mayhem, or malice this thing was capable of. Mom suggested the use of a broom to firmly encourage our unwelcome guest to leave, but I vetoed that idea on the grounds that, despite the boots, good old Gene could, and probably would, climb up the broom and try to get a little too familiar with one of us. Or even worse, would scuttle off into the recesses of the garage before we could evict him. In desperation, my mother went running out into the driveway in search of any, or every, neighbor she could find, hoping that one of them would rescue us in our time of need. No such luck.
Unsure of what to do (my strong sense of moral duty and the blubbery guy duking it out) but sure that there was no way this thing could stay where it was, I trudged into the house, leaving my mom to keep an eye on the boot-clad wonder. I put on my shoes, armored myself with the Breastplate of Righteousness and the Sword of the Spirit (as well as physical fortifications), and went to wage holy war on Gene.
Upon arrival on the battlefield, I surveyed my surroundings for preferably a weapon of mass destruction but decided to settle for any weapon at all. My eyes settled on one cardboard box. It was flat-bottomed and just heavy enough. Perfect. Picking up the box, I walked over to Gene, and with my feet as far away from my hands as I could make them, I lined up my shot, said a prayer, and dropped that bad boy. Hearing the contents of the box smack the floor, I pounced on it and, employing the full weight of my ample frame, engaged in what my family likes to call “The Smash and Smear Technique.” Applying as much pressure as I could, I turned the box, first clockwise then counterclockwise, ending with the agitation cycle twist. After what I deemed to be enough smearing, Mom and I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “We probably should check and make sure it’s dead,” she said. “You really think so?” I asked, with more than a little skepticism. “Yes.” So, we took formation, me behind the box, hands on the top and feet about 5 feet behind me, Mom covering my blind side. “Ready? One, two…”
On three I tilted the box and, once again emitted a sound that I never thought would issue from my particular set of vocal cords. There, under the box, and at the end of a very long, very wet trail of body fluid, was Gene. He was the size and shape of a freshly smashed mouse and was very, very dead. There was almost nothing left of his legendary hair and only one boot was still visible. Alas, Gene was no more. I respectfully lowered the box, brushed off my hands, and went back inside to make dinner. And thus, a great moral and physical battle was fought and won. And I guess tomorrow I’ll have to figure out how to get the body, of the artist formerly known as The God of Thunder, out of my garage.
I bet you thought, as I did, that was the end of this particular story. If so, you would be, as I was, wrong. I am not learned in Spider Lore, but I was under the impression that spiders were not particularly loyal to each other and that once dead, stayed dead. Evidently, I was wrong in one of these assumptions.
Tonight, tired and interested only in swan-diving into bed, I stumbled about in my dark bedroom, gathering my pjs and preparing for my graceful exit from the waking world. I imagined myself floating around my room to the sound of singing birds and harps, a princess modeling sleep like a fashion statement, and settling into a bed that would feel like a cloud, not like the over-stuffed duffle bag that claims to be my mattress. My Disney-level reverie was rudely interrupted as, passing my nightstand, I noticed a glimmer and a shadow that seemed rather out of place. I fumbled with the lamp by my bed, never taking my eyes from the area of concern.
As the light flared, several things happened at once: my corneas, affronted by what to them was equitable to an unannounced cavity search, curled up and played dead, I yelled something along the lines of “oooaaaahhhh, ooooaaahhh, woooaaahhOH MY GOD!”, and what appeared to be a slightly smaller, wirier version of last night’s visitor took shape on the floor. Its shadow perched menacingly on the wall. Think Ace Frehley, dressed to kill. At first, in my hysteria, I thought that Gene had come back to exact his revenge (he seems like the vengeful type). It wasn’t Gene though. I checked.
My mom, having heard my extremely un-princessy exclamation of shock and dismay, rushed in to find me standing in the center of my bed, the sheets and blankets gathered into the very middle, where the edges could not trail over the side and onto the floor, both hands over my mouth and both eyes popping. “What on earth?” I pointed, fingers quaking (the blubbery idiot having won this round), unable to speak. “I don’t even know what to do. Do you think the vacuum would work?” She asked, looking panicked. “I’m not sure, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”
She left me there, standing on the bed clutching the seat of my jeans and hopping from foot to foot. Following a very tense, very long 10 seconds, she came back in, looking remarkably like one of the Ghost Busters, brandishing the vacuum’s hose attachment like a sawed-off shotgun. “This had better work,” I muttered as the vacuum roared to life and she lunged at Ace with the ferocity that only a mother can achieve in times of great stress. With a resounding THWUP and a high whine, little Ace was sucked, boots and all, right up into the cruelly clear plastic dust trap.
In a moment of stunned silence, we peered into the dioramic equivalent of Mos Eisley but saw nothing. Just as I was about to completely lose my crap, Ace, apparently having fought his way through the layers of dust, reached the top and burst into view. Imagine, if you will, frickin’ Space Ace, boots in place, engaging in a rigorous rendition of River Dance. All legs, all horror.
Having done her duty, and us both unwilling to spend the night with that monstrosity in the house, my mom dragged the vacuum, Ace still dancing inside, out the front door and deposited them on the porch. I, having established that I don’t mess with lingering spider ju-ju, moved my bedding to the couch and attempted to reconcile what this turn of events could mean. I figure that I have been marked because I assassinated the great “Demon.” I mean, the chance of this being a coincidence is too far-fetched. That mass of crap and evil was in my bedroom…the night after I killed The God. The only thing I’m not sure about is if the carcass in the garage is calling out to its fellows or if I have been marked with some kind of scent that lets these assholes know where to find me. Either way, I think it’s time to move.
