Steve vs. The Spider

No, that’s not the title of the latest summer blockbuster currently thundering at the multiplex next door while you’re trying to enjoy your relaxing romantic comedy. If only. No, this is LIFE people, the cruel bitch of existence slapping me in the face with an arachnid invader in my very own home, nay, my very own private bedchamber! Needless to say, I could not let this intrusion, this unprovoked attack, stand.

Jenni noticed it first, skulking in the corner, its hairy appendages tucked neatly beneath its bulbous body. When she led my gaze to the creature, our eyes locked hard, its innumerable, dark orbs radiating malice. Quickly I shoved Jenni aside, getting her out of the line of attack. The little beast sat there, a coiled spring, plotting some form of vicious plan of assault it had trained long for in one of those many human-killing camps you hear about spiders starting all of the time. I couldn’t be sure at the time, but I think it was some sort of spider-terrorist.

As a freedom-loving, red-blooded American, I had no choice but to declare war. A lesser man or perhaps a very brave toddler might have gone for some sort of spray attack, but not I. Actually, I was informed by Jenni, no stranger to insect-disposal herself, that the Neutra-Air we had on-hand was too light for spider-killin’. I thought about spraying the stuff anyway and using a cigarette lighter to incinerate the foul thing, but then I remembered I’m afraid of fire and I can’t use a lighter (they hurt my gamin’ thumbs). I turned away for a few seconds to look for some other weapon which could slay the beast.

That was a few seconds more than the spider needed.


With a blinding speed that would make you blind if you tried to look at it because it was so blinding, the arachnid darted across the ceiling, positioning itself to strike at one of my vital organs, probably the jugular. The creature looked down at me menacingly, licking its little spider-lips (look close, they have them), assured of its kill. I’m sure at that moment it was dreaming of victory, webbing me up and dragging me back to its spider-friends and devouring my succulent flesh as I writhed in futile agony. Oh it must have tasted so sweet to that mean creature, the thought of sinking its fangs into me. Oh how its rotund belly, surely full of the heads of small puppies and the legs of helpless babies, shook with anticipation.

But as it prepared to lunge at me, perched over my very own bed where I lay my head to sleep at night, I struck first. Oh how its bravado quickly vanished, for not many spiders can resist the “paper towel pinch of death.” There is a Bolivian spider so quick, no human hand can contract fast enough to secure it. There is a Scandinavian spider so large that no human hand can pinch it hard enough. Luckily for me, this was no such beast. My hand, paper towel protecting me from its poisoned shell, closed around the wicked thing like the grasp of death itself, sure and swift. I smote my enemy’s ruin upon the wastebasket.

I emerged victorious, realizing that I had gotten lucky, hopefully not for the last time. I offered my fallen enemy a final, grudging salute, knowing that only by testing myself in the fires of his mortal combat could I emerge as tempered steel ready to cleave through challenges yet to come. That night, I drank a cold Coke. It never tasted sweeter.