In a bathroom somewhere, a man sees a spider.
It is fairly sizeable for a domestic spider - its body about the size of fingernail - and, though this man is not particularly afraid of spiders, for the duration of his business there he does not take his eyes from it.
It sits upon a web that it has built for itself in the corner of the windowsill. The web is like a child's drawing - a fairytale snowflake with concentric octagons working their way in towards their creator, the spider.
And there it sits, the king of all it surveys.
Upon closer inspection, this man notices that underneath the spider, underneath the web, there is a similarly sizeable housefly, fluttering its wings. There is something in the way it flutters its wings that suggests to this man that the fly is nervous. That it knows something is afoot. That peril lies ahead.
This man, he watches on as the spider starts to rub one of its back legs up and down, like it is slowly working out an itch. Despite not knowing the first thing about arachnid hunting rituals, somehow he knows that this is not a good sign. He sees the spider preparing to pounce and the poor snared fly, with all of its huge, glimmering eyes, staring at the hungry jaws of doom.
A pang of sympathy strikes this man. Ordinarily he would not have thought of himself as the kind of person who would ever find himself concerned about the welfare of a common housefly, much less the kind of person who would actively go out of his way to try to save the life of one, but now here he was, hatching a plan to do just that.
The spider stops moving its leg, stops moving all together. It sits on its web, as still as can be, and looks down at this shivering fly. How cruel, the man thinks, for the spider to taunt the fly in such a manner. It's no wonder that people hate spiders if this is how they choose to conduct themselves.
This man, he knows what to do.
He will twist the handle of the window, apply gentle pressure to the pane and pop the whole thing open. The threads of the web, they will snap and they will fall. The fly, far from being trapped, will now have whole wide world to escape to and the spider - the proud, smug spider - will fall to the ground and be left with nothing.
No prey, no home, no hope.
That will teach it.
This man, his hand is on the handle and he is all but a wrist's twist away from putting his plan into action but suddenly he is struck by a thought.
How exactly had this fly got itself into such a precarious position?
Surely it's not possible that it could have flown in between the sticky strands of gossamer without catching a wing or a leg? Because if it had managed to execute such a flawless display of aeronautical ability and successfully navigate its way through the web then it stands to reason that the fly should be able get itself back out again.
And even if it couldn't, was that any reason to save the sorry little pest now? Wasn’t it the fly’s own stupid fault that it had got itself into a scrape it couldn't get out of? It was like those morons you read about who try to scale Everest in trainers and bumbags, who end up forcing emergency rescue teams to risk their lives in mortally treacherous conditions to come and save their worthless hides.
Or worse, and probably more likely, was that the fly had been standing in that position all the while that the web was formed around it, and it was either too stupid or too lazy to move when it saw the spider starting construction.
Really, how fast can a spider move?
And don't think for a second that this man will fall for the old 'kindness of strangers' gag either. Granted, spiders aren't the most active of hunters and flies don't live long enough to ever become wise, but even so. If the fly has the audacity to try to play it naïve, say that it had no idea that the spider was out to harm it, that it thought the spider was putting a roof over its head, then this man will kill it himself.
His thoughts turn to the spider, sitting upon the house that it has built for itself with its own blood, sweat and tears - or whatever juices that spiders excrete in place of blood, sweat and tears - and was now ready to enjoy the nice, square meal that it so rightly deserves after a hard day of honest toil.
Besides, flies are what spiders eat. Who is he to stop a spider from catching his daily feed? This man would certainly have something to say if somebody tore his house to the ground simply because of his dietary requirements.
And maybe there's a family. Maybe this spider is the mother or the father of a nest of little baby spiders. He thinks of all these tiny crawlers, the thousands and thousands of little eyes between them all blinking hungrily, all waiting for their hunter-gatherer parent to come home and feed them. The waiting turns to impatience, which turns to hunger, to anger, to desperation, to weakness and then, finally, to death.
Still, the fly, shivering and scared, looks so haunted and helpless. It’s been stupid and careless. Is that any reason to let it die?
Look at it. It knows it's been stupid. It know it’s been stupid and it’s sorry. It'll change its ways. It promises. It’s been stupid and selfish and it doesn’t want to live like this any more.
Really. It won't take anything for granted ever again. It'll be a better parent; a more considerate lover. It'll help out more in the community. Give it a chance to turn itself around. In a year his name will be revered in any circle you can care to think of, just you see if it isn't.
Come on. It's not as if it has ever asked for anything from you before. Just this one favour. Please.
Please.
His business concluded, this man buttons himself up.
He has made up his mind.
He opens the mirrored bathroom cabinet and retrieves a can of his wife's hairspray.
Clasping the thumb and forefinger of his left hand tight against his nostrils, and using his right hand to aim the can at the web he squeezes a firm forefinger down hard on the nozzle.
As this chemical storm rains down upon them, both the spider and the fly panic and make unwise reactionary movements.
The spider loses its footing and starts to scrabble on the wires of its web, frantically trying to stay upright as the gale force aerosol blasts past it. The spray burns cold against its body and pushes it flat against the net.
The fly shakes and shivers in violent fits and spasms; its wings flapping, its feet firmly in place.
Neither try to run but, as the hairspray starts to set, slowing their jolts and their thrashes, they keep trying to move until, gradually, they fall still. Stuck fast.
This man, he keeps squirting the spray on them until his finger starts to hurt. Drifts of substance have formed up against the sill which bubble and flatten and fade to leave a varnished sheen on the window’s surface. In their wake they leave the two creatures, both cased in body casts
He wonders if they are both still alive.
They are.
They are looking around and down at their limbs, and wondering why they are so suddenly paralyzed. Coated like candied apples, their eyes still seeing, their hearts still beating. They are bugs in amber trapped before their time. They are still very much there.
And they will still be there long after they have died. Long after their insides have turned to dust and have been blown away; when all that remains are the hollow husks of their bodies, dried and bleached by the sun. They will still be there, locked in this position.
The spider, sitting on his web, king of all he surveys.
The fly, cowering beneath, awaiting the inevitable.
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