« on: December 14, 2010, 01:53:00 am »
I can't laugh from the nestled little spots in the web, can't mock and scream at their failure. I loved that chittering rage they'd have when they saw they'd captured my body but hadn't broken my resistance, that time wears even their diamond strong strands. Unthinking animals, being of malice but beings of instinct and no plans. Instinct can be tricked.
That was until the day at the bar. The table was littered with empty cups and the music played and the crowd roared in challenge and appreciation of it and this was my world. Everyone always huddles at one end of the bar it seems, packing in shoulder to shoulder for their own medicines, their precious golden liquid pills. I go to the far end, the one in the corner where there's that bartender who doesn't look at me funny when I order a bourbon neat and she's real damn sorry they're all out of glasses because she knows plastic is for the scum drinks. Well, the other scum drinks.
It's darker there and somehow quieter, the far end. I'm half way there and I see a fuzzy shape with its arms on the bar top and its other arms on the bar top and its eyes looking every direction of the compass and then two more. Or I think I see it, knock back the bourbon, order another. Then it's not staring everywhere it's looking over at me, casually leaning as though to engage me but waiting for my move. Instinct, again, let the fly struggle its way deeper in as it fearfully throws about vainly stupidly desperately panicking. I stare to its eyes to laugh, then, like I've been laughing since I knew it had me but it still wouldn't ever have me have me.
There's this pretty nurse I see walking into work a few days a week. She's tall and she's blonde and, well, I don't know anything else about her. Place like this beauty stands out though, goes a long way when all the walls are drab and all the people are prison people. Prison people on both sides in different uniforms and me in my uniform just outside its walls and her in her scrub uniform. A fresh face stands out and yeah, I'd notice her walking by as we both rushed in on our daily late schedules. That's what I see in the Spider's eyes at the bar, at first, I see that nurse. I'm still laughing and I'm still drinking to prove to the big bastard that I'm in control, not the booze and not the crowd that's stopped and keeps glancing at our little stare down.
Then another eye has me. Me in one eye and that nurse in the other. I'm sitting in our nice executive office chairs with the horrible lumbar support they provide and I'm me. I'm me, there with two eyes on the screen and a two hands on the keyboard and always moving about to the other screen or the mouse or the pen. And I'm moving faster and faster I must be busy, hustling around it must be a Monday when we get all the weekend paperwork because I'm a blur. My eyes are on paperwork screen then they're on the radio screen and my hands are on the keyboard then they're on the mouse and the nurse is still walking in the other eye but she's walking in shorter strides now even though she's going faster, faster and gracefully and confidently. My eyes are on the screen and they're on the other screen and they're on the keyboard and there's one on each mouse and there's another two working on papers all at once and does my skin look grey? I know I'm hairy but not that hairy, and my eyes aren't that dark they aren't black and reflective. Then there's that nurse in the Spider's other eye but she's straight skittering as she hits the doors, as she gets ready to hand out cups and cups and doses and doses of medications to the inmates, the stuff they crave and sometimes can't live without and sometimes can barely even live with and it's a con because a lot of them have the very same effects as the other stuff, that they're in for, in the syringes or the bottles or the pipes.
It's got four more eyes, the beast at the bar. I'm not laughing anymore. I've got this grin, this good trick you bastard but I've got some fight left kind of grin. It's got four more eyes and I look at one. There's my executive management track friend and he's putting down a sandwich at his desk to get more done and he's pushing it past big fucking dripping fangs. I don't stay there long enough to see what's in the sandwich. There's another eye and it's my claims adjuster friend, one hand on the phone and up by her face and the other five just dead bored by her side. Two more eyes but it's enough because those images keep switching. Friends parents strangers the bartendes the dj the guy in the bathroom the group of girls celebrating a friend's 21st and every driver passing by all at once. Six eyes I can see all at once in my own six eyes. Some of the images have fucking spider limbs like I saw on myself and on that nurse, but some don't. I like the ones that don't, not because they're resisting and not because they're innocent and winning but because they look tempting. They look like meat waiting for my attack, but better than the attack the trap I lay, the game I play in wait. The feast will come later, and it won't ever end and it'll be just one of a thousand others by the time I die in body even if I can't in truth. The feast will come later but now it's the chase, the game that I love to play because it's my own damn game and I can't lose it. And I laughed.
That's when I heard the chittering.
The same chittering I used to hear as I laughed at them in my sticky little corner of the big web; the one that kept me from falling off the world again.
I stopped my chittering. The Spider at the bar started its. Turns out it isn't quite rage.