Tags
Bosnia, chrysomya megacephala, fly, murder, poisoning, pornography, red-back, spider
Ne pravi pauk mrežu za jednu muhu.
Bosnian Proverb
I am a spider. I am a dangerous spider, even though my power is now weakening. Sitting here, perched high above the land I know so well. My mind’s eye replaces the view I see before me, with images from the winter I was at my most dangerous. It was the time I had eight flies and a mosquito on one arm, and the single solitary red-back spider tattooed on my other. I had just feasted in Italy and was hiding out in Šuica… When I get the chance, I hunt. I did back then, perhaps I will again soon. Don’t give me that chance. Run when we meet.
In Blidinje nature park I met her. She arrived in a Porsche 356 – I will never know why she drove that there, other than just because she could. Lush lips, voluptuous bosom, beautiful bubble butt and dark blonde hair made her worth noticing even more than the car. Her eyes, though, dull with boredom, were glued to her phone. So I struck up a conversation.
We started talking about the snowy nature park, the Instagram pictures she was taking of it, the history of the land and the potential future. She was, however, so beautiful and well groomed, that I had to compliment her on it. She replied cryptically: ‘Show me a beautiful woman, and I show you a man who’s tired of fucking her.’ I’d seen the movie, and suspected instantly that it was her money, not his, that ran the family. Her reply did turn the conversation to sex.
I wasn’t particularly shy, but I was intimidated by her beauty. I stayed on generic terms – she always comes first, it’s not your duty to come, it’s your partner’s duty to induce an orgasm upon you. She quickly became more specific. She said she divorced her husband five months ago, and hadn’t had sex for seven. No man had dared to approach her for real, given her beauty and stature. She didn’t elaborate on how she’d reached her social standing, and I didn’t ask. She did tell me about a husband who had treated her as nothing better than a warm sex doll; he’d not made her come. Ever. And the way I talked about sex, turned her on; big time.
Her Porsche, which she told me she’d bought in Italy and had nicknamed Pausini (she never told me why she’d done that), was too small for the kind of sex I intended to have, but I did make her come through manual labour. She didn’t even take her clothes off. We kissed, her luscious lips and perfect teeth with – surprise – pierced tongue made kissing amazing. My hand moved down into her panties and I massaged the moisture out of her, till she arched her back and moaned in pleasure; pleasure she’d only induced upon herself, since she’d met her husband. She then thanked me by unbuttoning my fly. She parted her succulent lips and folded them around my shaft. The button in her tongue gently moved up and down, and drove me to an ecstatic level I’d not experienced before – especially not through oral sex.
After she swallowed my 10cc, I buttoned up and she drove me to her estate – she apparently was satisfied enough, for I didn’t see her use her phone again. There we spent the week fornicating. One morning, as I was making her breakfast, a man walked in and I found out she’d lied to me. The man, who thought I was the new chef, asked me for a specific breakfast with sweet black Americano and went up to her bedroom. I’d just met her husband; the divorce was a lie. And while I now had a good reason to swat this fly, it presented me with quite a dilemma.
Walk away? Never! I am a fucking spider. And I’m good at fucking, too! I am dangerous; I kill. But then, she’d lied to me to get laid; I ‘d never been this irked before. This fly had to die. Today. But what to do about her mate? He had done me little harm, but if I killed her, he surely would hunt me down.
And then it hit me. She liked her cappuccino sweet. He’d just ordered coffee with three spoons of sugar. So, instead of sugar, I laced their drinks with anti-freeze. Given the season, I knew there was a bottle in the garage. Just in case it wasn’t enough, I brought the bottle and a funnel with me upstairs. I had no poisoning experience. How much anti-freeze knocks a body out? How long would it take for the right amount of anti-freeze to crystallise and cut through the kidneys? I had no idea.
They loved the coffee, drank three more cups, and then moved to lemonade. I remained their chef for the rest of the day, feeding them over a litre of anti-freeze in all. It was evening when the stomach pains started. It was the moment to cut all communication with the outside world. And to find a tattoo artist. I decided to pretend this double murder was only the elimination of the one fly; I had the artist put a nice colourful chrysomya megacephala on my arm.
As you see, I am a spider, and if need be, I don’t weave my web for just one fly. I adapt and that was what I considered most dangerous about me. If I talk to you, run. Even if you are plural. I can take on any fly. Any fly, said the spider.
