Fly to the Spider
Jun 26, 2018 13:31:15 GMT -5
via mobile
Spencer Adams, Bonnie Blue, and 1 more like this
Post by Tatters The Tantalizing on Jun 26, 2018 13:31:15 GMT -5
Where do I even begin telling the story of my life? Most human cycles are short and sad instruction manuals written by incomplete morons anyways.
Tut tut.
Tsk tsk.
And all that.
So where should I start? The beginning or the end? Does it matter? Are you even listening? HELLO, PARTNER! IS ANYBODY HOME? I didn’t think so.
That’s why I don’t think.
I just do.
I just am.
This is only natural. The state of nature. The circle of life. Like the spider to the fly, you’re all caught in my wicked web. The spider whispers into the flies ear before sinking its fangs and slurping it’s guts out like a fork full of linguini:
“Are we having fun yet?”
I’m not.
But I will be, soon enough.
Do you feel that chill in the air? Can you smell the popcorn, chili dogs, and elephant shit? Or do you only smell your own putrid, rotting carcass? Are you afraid? Or are you pretending not to be? I’m not a demon. Or a ghost. Or the boogeyman. I stopped believing in the boogeyman after I beat the devil in a foot race. I realized that the most terrifying thing on this plane of existence were humans.
The pedestrian. The bystanders. The marks.
And I’m going to work ya. I’m going to work ya, good. Count one two three and dance on your intestines. I’m not afraid of anything because I am everything.
I am eternal.
You’re a bunch of brats vamping the teet of Mother Earth and giving nothing back.
Leeches and parasites to be eradicated.
Flies to the spider.
And the wicked web is weaved just for you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~<i>~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spindly fingers work meticulously over a glossy silver doublet, the only thing in the immediate area that appears to be shown any genuine care or attention. The tight living space has accumulated years of dust and decay, giving a glimpse into the mind of the mysterious Tatters and his sworn bodyguard known as Muffins. Tatters threads a needle, his giant lips pursed comically, the smeared greasepaint on his face etching into his wrinkles.
“Will you turn down that racket?” Tatters asks calmly, “I can hardly hear myself think.”
Muffins sits cross legged, peering into a shattered television set. He turns the knob, though it does absolutely nothing. He turns to observe (his master?) Tatters as he works on his costume.
“I don’t mean to be cross with you”, Tatters said, a hint of authenticity in his voice, “I’m sure that was a rerun anyways. There’s nothing good on television anymore, yet people continue to peer in to the box when there’s an entire world to be discovered. To be conquered.”
“BOYS!” A harsh voice called from the other room.
“Go see what she wants would you?” Tatters asked, “I’m trying to finish my work.”
Muffins stands up with swiftness that belies his size and leaves towards the back of the house. Tatters sits in silence hanging uncomfortably in the air, continuing his work for a few minutes before looking up to see Muffins in the dilapidated doorway.
“Of course she wants me, she always wants me”, Tatters snarls before setting his doublet down gently on his table and storming off to the back room.
Through the decrepit hallway and into a dungeon-esque bedroom where nothing but a beaten radio and a shitty torn lamp sit on the side table. The radio harkens tunes of the past but Tatters doesn’t hear them. He only sees the near six hundred pound women who lays like a bump on the king size mattress in the middle of the floor.
“Yes, mother?” He asks.
“Fetch me something to eat, I’m starving”, she sneers, hardly acknowledging Tatters.
“You’ve just eaten”, he replies.
“Do it look like a give a shit you fuckin’ fruitcake?!” she yells, a sliver of spittle rolling down her fat ass chins, “I ain’t sweatin’ you over the clown paint and frilly dresses, now get me something to eat! And tell your retard fuckin’ brother if he be comin’ in here he has to speak!”
“He says a lot, mother”, Tatters hastily answers, “but you just don’t listen.”
“Whatever!” she screams, “Now go get my fuckin’ food you queer!”
Tatters turns on his heels, exits the room, and heads back towards the living space. Muffins eyes stare at him, painfully, terrified.
“Let’s go”, Tatters says, “That fat cow can eat herself if she’s hungry.”
Tatters grabs his doublet off the table as he swings open a threadbare wooden slab of a door and the two leave into the hallow night.
Tut tut.
Tsk tsk.
And all that.
So where should I start? The beginning or the end? Does it matter? Are you even listening? HELLO, PARTNER! IS ANYBODY HOME? I didn’t think so.
That’s why I don’t think.
I just do.
I just am.
This is only natural. The state of nature. The circle of life. Like the spider to the fly, you’re all caught in my wicked web. The spider whispers into the flies ear before sinking its fangs and slurping it’s guts out like a fork full of linguini:
“Are we having fun yet?”
I’m not.
But I will be, soon enough.
Do you feel that chill in the air? Can you smell the popcorn, chili dogs, and elephant shit? Or do you only smell your own putrid, rotting carcass? Are you afraid? Or are you pretending not to be? I’m not a demon. Or a ghost. Or the boogeyman. I stopped believing in the boogeyman after I beat the devil in a foot race. I realized that the most terrifying thing on this plane of existence were humans.
The pedestrian. The bystanders. The marks.
And I’m going to work ya. I’m going to work ya, good. Count one two three and dance on your intestines. I’m not afraid of anything because I am everything.
I am eternal.
You’re a bunch of brats vamping the teet of Mother Earth and giving nothing back.
Leeches and parasites to be eradicated.
Flies to the spider.
And the wicked web is weaved just for you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~<i>~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spindly fingers work meticulously over a glossy silver doublet, the only thing in the immediate area that appears to be shown any genuine care or attention. The tight living space has accumulated years of dust and decay, giving a glimpse into the mind of the mysterious Tatters and his sworn bodyguard known as Muffins. Tatters threads a needle, his giant lips pursed comically, the smeared greasepaint on his face etching into his wrinkles.
“Will you turn down that racket?” Tatters asks calmly, “I can hardly hear myself think.”
Muffins sits cross legged, peering into a shattered television set. He turns the knob, though it does absolutely nothing. He turns to observe (his master?) Tatters as he works on his costume.
“I don’t mean to be cross with you”, Tatters said, a hint of authenticity in his voice, “I’m sure that was a rerun anyways. There’s nothing good on television anymore, yet people continue to peer in to the box when there’s an entire world to be discovered. To be conquered.”
“BOYS!” A harsh voice called from the other room.
“Go see what she wants would you?” Tatters asked, “I’m trying to finish my work.”
Muffins stands up with swiftness that belies his size and leaves towards the back of the house. Tatters sits in silence hanging uncomfortably in the air, continuing his work for a few minutes before looking up to see Muffins in the dilapidated doorway.
“Of course she wants me, she always wants me”, Tatters snarls before setting his doublet down gently on his table and storming off to the back room.
Through the decrepit hallway and into a dungeon-esque bedroom where nothing but a beaten radio and a shitty torn lamp sit on the side table. The radio harkens tunes of the past but Tatters doesn’t hear them. He only sees the near six hundred pound women who lays like a bump on the king size mattress in the middle of the floor.
“Yes, mother?” He asks.
“Fetch me something to eat, I’m starving”, she sneers, hardly acknowledging Tatters.
“You’ve just eaten”, he replies.
“Do it look like a give a shit you fuckin’ fruitcake?!” she yells, a sliver of spittle rolling down her fat ass chins, “I ain’t sweatin’ you over the clown paint and frilly dresses, now get me something to eat! And tell your retard fuckin’ brother if he be comin’ in here he has to speak!”
“He says a lot, mother”, Tatters hastily answers, “but you just don’t listen.”
“Whatever!” she screams, “Now go get my fuckin’ food you queer!”
Tatters turns on his heels, exits the room, and heads back towards the living space. Muffins eyes stare at him, painfully, terrified.
“Let’s go”, Tatters says, “That fat cow can eat herself if she’s hungry.”
Tatters grabs his doublet off the table as he swings open a threadbare wooden slab of a door and the two leave into the hallow night.