Heavy curtains were drawn, making an already dark room seem impossibly darker. The salesman didn’t bother knocking, rather, he slowly opened the squeaking door with one long arm. The familiar stench of death wafted through the salesman’s nostrils, making him grin. His mouth had been cleaned up quite nicely since his last dose, but somehow that classic, distrustful salesman’s smile came through.
Nothing had changed since the salesman’s last visit here, except for maybe the body. The room was still in a state of distress, the room fan was on, and the tv was on. On the couch lie the salesman’s ripened fruit: the body of the poor soul that bought a Russian Tweezer just a few months earlier. It was administered the same way all of the spiders are, and it was harvested, like this, every time.
The victim had his head resting on his shoulder but he was looking upwards, towards the sky; it was a most unnatural position. One eye had been cleaned out and in its place lie an adult Russian Tweezer resting on a pile of eggs. The females have the unique capability of holding donor sperm until a time as they desire to fertilize their eggs, such as when they reach maturity.
The female had chosen her time and had come crawling out from behind a sack that had developed behind the victim’s eye. The damage done to the brain during this experience kills the user but allows the female to lay her eggs in an ideal location: an eye socket.
“Perfect,” the salesman whispered. He coaxed the angry mother spider into a large, glass jar; the egg nest he gently scooped up into a separate jar, careful not to damage any angle of the nest so that every egg inside was safe.
The victim was left with his head unnaturally twisted up towards the sky, with one eye missing, and a cleaned-out eye socket. The eyelids remained intact, but if you looked down from a certain angle, you could see the pink and purple mash of scrambled brain matter through the white sheen of bone. It was a clean sweep once the salesman was finished. He chuckled to himself, donned his hat, and tiptoed out the door.
“I bet this will be a delicious meal,” the salesman mumbled. He brought the glass jar of the mama spider up to his face to eye her in greater detail. “My, my, yes, you are a beautiful, red specimen; I’m sure you will deliver a bloody mess.”
Back in his caravan, he gently placed the nest into a large enclosure.
“I’ll be back for some of you later.” After ensuring the nest’s comfort, he emptied the red spider into the square glass compartment intended for “collecting”. Like with the spider before her, he brought the walls in close so that she was trapped between the glass for his viewing pleasure. Bringing his head down close to the jar so that he could face her one on one, he cranked the handle, ending her life between two glass panes.
He collected her dew, administered some to himself, and sat back into his seat. The flashes came on strong; she must have recently killed him and laid her nest.
The first image was that of a young man staring at himself in the mirror, angry and unkempt. The salesman was seeing the vision through the eyes of this man, the same man he had just harvested the spider from moments ago.
The next moment, the man was walking to a nightclub with no weapons, but certainly filled with rage and the intent to harm. The salesman had no control over the body as he watched “himself” wait in line, pass through the doors, move amongst the crowd, heading straight for the back doors with intention. The salesman didn’t know where this was heading, but this person’s worst memory held the basis of rage and anger, which usually ended with an orgasmic high for the user.
The flashes progressed to that of the salesman watching this man push his way through a crowd of well-dressed people. He wasn’t dressed for this occasion, noting his dirty and torn office suit he wore slacked over his thin frame.
There were white, black, and gold balloons everywhere, and he must have just missed some grand reveal since the floor was as scattered as the ceiling was with balloons; some must have had helium. The salesman’s character didn’t seem bothered by them or just didn’t notice the balloons as he kicked his way through dozens to the back of the large ballroom. He pushed his way through metal bar doors to the back alley where people were smoking and chatting, ironically wearing high-end clothing while they stood on damp concrete next to garbage bins. Like in the ballroom, the people here stared with disapproving eyes as the salesman bullied his way to the back of the alley where a man stood talking with three women.
He wore a lavender suit, had thick, wavy, blonde hair, and a smile that could light the alley with its brightness. His back was turned to the salesman, who had grabbed a crowbar that was propped up against the nearest trash bin. The salesman watched behind his character’s eyes with excitement that penetrated the flesh; he could feel the rage and adrenaline that this man felt. Although he didn’t know why he was angry at this man, it didn’t matter. Whatever this man had done to the salesman’s character was enough to drive this man to outright murder him, and that’s what he did.
The salesman watched with overflowing excitement as his character smacked the man behind the knees with the makeshift weapon. It brought him down to a kneeling position, where he cried out and turned to face his attacker. The man must have known his attacker as the look on his face was priceless: it was the look of prey staring up at a predator, and it was the look of “oh shit, I’m fucked.”
The weapon came down on the back of the man’s neck, bringing him down to the floor where the salesman brought the bar down over the man’s head. The first time he hit him, his head bounced back, like a ball. The salesman’s weak frame of character had to bring all his strength down to crack the man’s skull. Blood came from the impact wound in addition to leaking from multiple orifices, and screams of women and men alike were faintly heard in the background. The cracking of the man’s skull against the wood and the pavement somehow outweighed their screams, although he did catch a glimpse of “Someone call 911!” among the screams.
The salesman could taste the familiar taste of iron-rich blood on his mouth, and he realized his character was smiling while he pounded the metal bar down on the man’s skull over and over until he was just hitting the pavement. The sounds of the metal bar reverberating off of the pavement and of the heavy breathing from his character were the last things the salesman heard before coming out of his high.