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Spinnerin am Morgen
bringt Kummer und Sorgen.
Spinnerin am Abend
bringt Glück und Gaben.

German poem

I am a spider. I am a dangerous spider. Three murders in five minutes, two flies added to the tattoos on my arm on the same day. As I told you in the first episode, on the shoulder abbreviated with the same letter as my real initial, a large red-back spider tattoo climbs up towards my neck.

You read these confessions on a screen. I first wrote them by hand. Had you seen the original, you would notice my handwriting going wobbly; you would find droplets of blood on the paper. I am sitting high up, out of sight, on a pillar of a suspension bridge close to my birthplace. I feel less dangerous now than I did when I bought a second hand Benz in the outskirts of Szczecin, now only three months ago. I hope my strength doesn’t fade as fast as the light in the April evening; you deserve to know what brought me here.

The Benz I bought, brought me to the Uckersee where I found a hotel with a restaurant on the premises. I indulged in a nice beer. A TV was on and the news channel reported on a gruesome triple murder in Szczecin. The police were investigating, but for some reason I had escaped their radar. That was when I was offered another drink by a woman quite a bit older than myself. She was still attractive and very well groomed. She had more wrinkles than the girls I usually bedded, but her body was in perfect balance, and all natural – except for her jet-black hair, which was obviously dyed. She reminded me of an aged version of the fictional girl I had fallen for in my teenage years – Thura was her name, from a post-apocalypse Dutch novel.

By the time we made it to her room, I found out she was actually a lot older. Menopause was past tense for her. But she was quite content: “it’s a lot cheaper not having to buy tampons.”

We kissed, we got naked, and I noticed her body showing signs of having lived. Her pubic hair was as well groomed as her face. Her breasts were not as full as they – probably – used to be, but stimulating them resulted in the expected response. Then I remembered something I’d heard of.

“What about dryness?” I asked. “Not if he is orally agile”, she replied and I went down on her. Not a minute in, did she turn it into 69. And she knew how to suck. To this day I am surprised that I did not walk away from that with a hickey on my dickhead.

She sucked me dry, I licked her wet. Her orgasm was loud and came from deep within – induced not only by my mouth; my tongue was aided by four fingers. After our mutual orgasms, we enjoyed some pillow-talk, until her tickling fingers got me hard again. And then we did all the positions in the book, except anal. She wasn’t into that, but I didn’t mind. I rode her, she rode me, I took her from behind, she did a reverse cowgirl, but I didn’t enjoy that as much as I thought I would.

Before the second cumming, she’d told me she’d come thrice. And then I blasted my load deep inside of her. She laid next to me, and we shared some more pillow-talk. This evening, this spinster brought me some pleasure; if little good fortune.

By morning, reality caught up with me, and this spinster turned into a sour partner. She picked up her phone, scrolled through her Instagram account. When she showed me the screen, I knew I had fucked up. I was looking at myself, back in Bosnia. And it was the last picture her friend had posted.

I got up from the bed, went into the bathroom to take a leak, and I silently underwent the questions she fired at me. I pulled the hair dryer from the wall and went back into the bedroom. That is when she asked me if I was the perp from the news from Szczecin.

As I pulled the electric wire tight around her neck, I told her the truth. I told her that she would be turned into a fly tattoo on my arm. Because I am a spider, and I kill flies. Especially the ones that are a nuisance; those buzzing around my head with annoying questions.

I left the hotel the same night and drove eight hundred miles in my barrel of steel, with two stops for fuel and a pitiful meal, straight to the tattoo artist who’d eternalised #One on my shoulder. He recognised the tattoo, but didn’t think much of the others. And right there in that tattoo shop, I met my last adventure: the one that drove me to write these confessions, high up, hiding, out of sight, trembling due to the cold and due to my wounds. But that is the last episode of my story; you will get to read it soon…

Despite my current weakness, know that I am a dangerous spider. And as you are not her, fear me. When we meet: run. There is a lot of space left on my body for fly tattoos.