Frankenspider

FRANKENSPIDER

THE TERRIBLE TALE OF MY EFFORTS TO REBUILD A CRUSHED SPIDER

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Here MOUNT PERRY Rises Majestically In Back Of
LAKE MOUNT PERRY.
This Picture Has Been Cheerfully Donated By The
SKY MOUNT PERRY, FLORIDA, FOUNDATION

I HATE SPIDERS. NOT JUST ANY SPIDER, BUT ALL SPIDERS BOTH
LARGE AND SMALL. RECENTLY I HAD AN OPPORTUNITY TO
DISPATCH ONE OF THESE HAIRY, SLATHERING, POISONUS
MONSTERS.
LATER IN THE DAY, I HAD REASON TO CONTEMPLATE WHAT I HAD
DONE TO THE SPIDER.
THIS IS THE STORY OF MY EFFORTS TO REANIMATE THE CRUMPLED
SPIDER AND MAKE MY PEACE WITH GOD.
HERE'S CHAPTER TWO FOR YOUR READING ENJOYMENT.
THIS BOOK IS ALL WRITTEN AND NEEDS TO BE PUBLISHED.

As I returned to sipping my coffee again, I let my gaze wander about the room. I
suppose that I was looking for any sign of tell-tale motion indicating that the spider I
had just dispatched had not been alone. The thought of having more than one of
those brutes in the same house with me brought the hair on the back of my neck up
again.
The cat, a long haired multi-colored version of the common alley-cat (Felix
Domesticus), was still curled up on a chair in the living-room. For lack of a better
handle, I had named it "Cat." I have never been particularly gifted in the selection of
names. Anyhow, the name seemed quite appropriate and it answered to that so long
as it thought that there was food involved. As a matter of fact, it answered to
anything if it thought there was food to be had.
I suppose that if I had a dog it would be named "Dog." I did have chickens and I
had named them "White Chicken 1 -- 2 -- 3", and so on. There was also "Black
Chicken," and "Brown Chicken." Not very original but adequately descriptive.
Cat was a "NEDER CAT," by that I mean that it had been to the veterinarian and
was now NEDER a boy nor a girl cat. This, of course slowed kitty down
considerably.
The cat, now fully roused from its sleep, was watching my every move through
huge eyes from its perch on the chair, condemnation was written all over its face.
One would think that after all the food, vet bills and affection I had heaped on that
darn cat, it would have killed the spider for me. But no, it just laid there condemning
me for disturbing it.
Its only reaction to my altercation with the dreaded spider, was to lift its head and
open its eyes to the size of dinner plates so long as there was any movement on my
part. I suppose, considering the circumstances, its actions were predictable. I
couldn't help but wonder how the cat would have reacted if it had been the
veterinarian that killed the spider.
Somehow, as I placed my now empty coffee cup in the sink to be washed, my gaze
kept coming back to the dead spider on the floor. It just lay there, all crumpled up,
over by the bookcase. I wondered if I would have been so quick to kill it if it had
been a white spider.
Then again, I hate all spiders equally, there was no prejudice on my part. This, in
itself, justified my attack on the spider and the efficient way it had been dispatched.
Messy, but nonetheless efficient.
Then an awful thought filled my head. I had killed one of God's creatures! The idea
chewed at the back of my brain. I tried to put the thought to rest by rationalizing that
I hated spiders anyhow and for that reason alone, this one deserved to die a most
horrible death. After all, during the course of my life I had destroyed thousands of
the poisonous things. Why should this one be any different?
The thought had almost been put to rest when I glanced back at the cat.
Condemnation was still spread all over its face. Any other time I would have found
the cat's expression quite bland. It was now, however, looking on me as if it were
condemning me.
It was probably just my overactive imagination at work but, then again, just how
could anyone ever think that I had an overactive imagination?
Suddenly, I knew that I would be asked about this at the "Pearly Gates." Probably
just before St. Peter pointed me in the direction of the down escalator. I could just
see the pained expression on St. Peter's face as he looked, sympathetically, at the
crumpled spider limping about in whatever the place is that dead spiders go to. I was
going to be in deep trouble!
My argument about how much I hated spiders and that I was this spider's next
intended meal, was going to fall on deaf ears. St. Peter's response would probably
go something like, "You killed one of God's creations, and now you're going to pay
for it! Had the spider done this to you, it would be on its way to spider Hell at this
very moment."
The wrinkled spider, of course, would be looking back at us with a pained "WHO
ME?" expression on its face but it would be jubilant over my situation, its lust for
revenge being satisfied at last. It didn't take much imagination to contemplate a
wicked smile spreading over the face of the spider, with venom dripping from its
fangs, its six eyes glistening with hatred in the rarified air of spider heaven as St.
Peter prodded me toward the down escalator.
Panic filled my heart. Other than my hatred of spiders I considered myself to be a
reasonably good person. I had to do something to atone for this transgression against
God and nature. After all, who was I to make this judgement that the spider should
die and I go on with my life. The spider hadn't really done anything to me. I had
reacted to what I had perceived was the spiders intent. I was now definitely in deep
trouble.
Tales from the Old Testament of God's vengeance flooded my head. What I had
done to the spider was going to be pale by comparison. A vision of my house, with
me in it, slowly disappearing in a ball of super hot fire welled up in my head.
Once again the spider was there dancing about with great glee on its crumpled legs,
just inches out of reach of my rolled up magazine. I believe that a scenario such as
this was graphically described in a book called Dante's "Inferno".
I knew that I had to do something. But what? Racing to the spider's crumpled
corpse, I picked it up carefully on a piece of paper. After all, I didn't want to get
spider innards all over my hands again. It was an awful job separating the rest of the
spider from the carpet.
Most of the time I moved about the house bare-footed, but just the thought of
stepping in this spot with spider goop still in the nap of the carpet made my skin
crawl. When I finished cleaning, it was the cleanest spot in the whole carpet.
Now, what was I going to do with the dead spider? The spider was sure a mess. The
very least I could do for it was to give it a decent burial. Don't good intentions count
for something? Surely God would credit me for the intent.
With this in mind, I started toward the garbage grinder in the kitchen sink. Complete
and total destruction was the answer.
"NO!" I thought, this would only compound an already grizzly situation and the little
piece of paper would probably clog up the grinder. The toilet was the answer. A
quick flush and it would all be over, paper and all.
I stopped in my tracks about half way to the bathroom. This was all wrong. Wasn't I
supposed to be trying to help the spider? All this would accomplish would be to hide
the evidence. There had to be a better way.

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