Fucking Spiders Won

I thought I'd escaped those creepy little bastards when I left Campbell. But no, they got me back. I have a spider bite. On my inner thigh. And it itches, and burns, and hurts like a son of a bitch. And of course it's just far enough down my thigh that I feel like I can justify scratching it without looking like you'd need to double up on the protection before walking into the same room as me. But I'm probably wrong...I can scratch all I want when I'm nekkid, but toss on a pair of pants, and it may be a little more difficult to judge the exact point that I'm scratching. So I probably look like I'm running around, groping at my burning, itchy crotch, when it's really my burning, itchy thigh I'm groping at.

This means war. I'm gonna hunt me down that spider, rip off all it's legs, real slow like, one at a time. Then I'm gonna tie a string around that fucker, and hang it from the ceiling so Satan's Cat can work off some of her angst batting it around. Oh yeah, and I'm gonna force feed that little shit some flyjuice on occation, just to make sure to extend it's misery for as long as possible.
This could work. If Satan's Cat appreciates the sacrificial legless spider enough, she may quit those sneaky attempts at aputating my limbs while I sleep. It would be a fitting sacrifice, anyway. Course, she'd still have the Death of a Thousand Knives to fall back on.

Come to think of it, maybe I should dangle Satan's Cat from the ceiling for the spider to bat around.