Actually, the spider was planning her attack. I believe she had the sick hunger. When she smelled that meat, she made her move and then I seen the red hourglass flash on her belly again. Seeing that hourglass was like walking into a bank with a nine-millimeter. What a rush! The spider pounced on that hamburger and gave it a poison injection. I wiggled the web a little, so the spider would think she had a live one, you know. Then I realized that the light was on and conditions weren’t right for dinner. She was used to permanent dark. I shut off the light and closed the door. After Captain Berg’s Stamp Hour, I returned and the ball of hamburger was gone. Not only that, the spider seemed to intuit a message to me. The spider was used to having me come in there and blow smoke on her and I think, Aha! I get it, you got a cigarette jones. Fuckin’ A! Maybe you would like a cup of coffee, too, you nasty little cocksucker. Piece of chocolate cake with ice cream and some hot fudge. I would like some too. Heh heh.

I peg-legged it over to a deli and bought a package of cigarettes and when I get back, I’m standing there enjoying the smoke and watching the spider—you know, chop-a-leg can’t be that bad when you got eight legs—that’s when I get the cold, dead feeling in my good leg, the right one. My chest gets tight. My jaw hurts. My left arm hurts. I stagger upstairs and take an aspirin and two of my peptoglycerine tablets or whatever. Heart pills. Nitropep whatever. Put two under your tongue and they make your asshole tickle. Make it turn inside out.

I laid in my bed consumed with fear. My heart was Cuban Pete and it was rumbling to the Congo beat. It took a long time to calm down. When I was finally calm, I said, “Okay, God, I’m ready. Take me out now. I’ve had it with this whole no-leg motherfucker.”