Spider Bite Quotes

You're late." "Sorry. I was busy talking about my feelings and killing people.

The two men stared at each other. Assumptions were made, judgments rendered, dicks measured.

You're just jealous." "Hardly. Been there, done you. Adequate, but unremarkable.

Luck hadn't smiled on me tonight. Capricious bitch.

Executive Vice President? That's a nice way of saying he's someone's corporate bitch.

I know that sounds weird, but it's hard to be scared or even angry at a guy in Spider-Man pajamas,"- Greg

You can work with me—or you can wade through the blood and bodies after I'm done.

Emotions were for those too weak to turn them off.

I might be an assassin, but never let it be said I wasn't as gracious a hostess as the next gal.

Favorite Quotations. I speak my mind because it hurts to bite my tongue. The worth of a book is measured by what you carry away from it. It's not over till it's over. Imagination is everything. All life is an experiment. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.

I already know how I'm going to die"..."How?" I asked. "Spider bite. Or being sarcastic at the wrong time.

Finn raised his coffee öug to me. "That's my girl. A bitch to the bitter end." I saluted him with my sadwich. "Always

I'd come to terms with what I did long ago. The bodies, the blood, the tears of those left behind. Even the fact I was probably going to burn in hell didn't bother me. Much.

Oh, Finn isn’t an assassin,” I cut in. “He’s much, much worse. He’s a banker.

The zombie looks like a man, walks like a man, eats and otherwise functions fully, yet is devoid of the spark. It represents the nagging doubt that lays deep in the heart of even the most zealous believer: behind all of your pretty songs and stained glass, this is what you really are. Shambling meat. Our true fear of the zombie was never that its bite would turn us into one of them. Our fear is that we are already zombies.

You picked that out?” Caine asked. “That pink, plastic toy?” I turned to look at him. “I happen to have been a little girl, once upon a time, detective. I know what they like. Every little girl wants to be a princess.” A thoughtful frown overcame the angry tension on Caine’s rugged face. “And what happens when they grow up?” I thought of my mother and sisters and all the horrors that had happened the day they’d died. A bitter laugh escaped from my tight lips. “Then they just want to be little girls again.

They’d played “Sweet Home, Alabama” so many times I wanted to crash the party, kill the radio, and knife whoever was selecting the music.

Still, I'd do anything for him. Even smear his clotting blood inside the vehicle of his choosing.

He gave me his word. That means something to a man like Donovan Caine. Yeah, it means you'll realize he's an exceptionally good liar when you're clutching your intestines and choking on your own blood on his living room floor.

The two men eyed each other. Assessing strengths. Looking for weaknesses. Measuring dicks once again

Maybe I find him...interesting. Attractive in an uptight sort of way. But that won't keep me from killing him if he does something stupid—like try to double-cross us. That is something thats nonnegotiable, no matter how much fuck potential he might have.

Red, I love you. Red, I will send you letters from everywhen telling you so. Letters of only one word. Letters that will brush your cheek and grip your hair. Letters that will bite you. Letters that will mark you. I’ll write you by bullet ant and spider wasp. I’ll write you by shark’s tooth and scallop shell.

This is really good,” Donovan Caine said, attacking his third strawberry pancake. “You sound surprised,” I said. He shrugged. “I just didn’t think an assassin would be able to cook like this.” “Well, I do get lots of practice with knives. You could say I’m multitasking.” The detective froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. “I’m kidding. I enjoy cooking. It relaxes me.

There is no path to the future, Fitz. The path is now. Now is all there is, or ever will be. You can change perhaps the next ten breaths in your life. But after that, random chance seizes you in its jaws again. A tree falls on you, a spider bites your ankle, and all your grand plans for winning a battle are for naught. Now is what we have Fitz, and now is where we act to stay alive.

Easy was for people too weak to suck it up and do what needed to be done. And I wasn’t weak. Not anymore.

...he was muttering my name over and over. Gin, Gin, Gin. Like it was some sort of prayer—or a curse. Sexiest damn thing I’d ever heard.

You've got a thing for Donovan Caine. You have ever since you killed Ingles, his partner, and he went all dogged and determined on you.

Spider venom comes in many forms. It can often take a long while to discover the full effects of the bite. Naturalists have pondered this for years: there are spiders whose bite can cause the place bitten to rot and to die, sometimes more than a year after it was bitten. As to why spiders do this, the answer is simple. It's because spiders think this is funny, and they don't want you ever to forget them.

Time overlaps itself. A breath breathed from a passing breeze is not the whole wind, neither is it just the last of what has passed and the first of what will come, but is more--let me see--more like a single point plucked on a single strand of a vast spider web of winds, setting the whole scene atingle. That way; it overlaps...As prehistoric ferns grow from bathtub planters. As a shiny new ax, taking a swing at somebody's next year's split-level pinewood pad, bites all the way to the Civil War. As proposed highways break down through the stacked strata of centuries.

Killing someone was easy - getting away with it was what was truly challenging.

Death was a release, in so many ways. An end to suffering. An escape to something else. What that something else was, I didn’t know. Maybe heaven. Maybe hell. Maybe nothing at all. But I doubted it could be any worse than some of the things I’d seen and done in my lifetime.

Asylum. The word always made me smile. Such a pretty name for a hellhole.

Donovan Caine naked, water droplets sliding down his lean body, his muscles clenching and relaxing as he washes himself. Mmm. Nice image. Despite our earlier confrontation, I still found the detective extremely sexy. He'd be even more attractive if he'd lose the righteous anger and the stick up his ass. But no man was perfect.

Red, I will send you letters from everywhen telling you so, letters of only one word, letters that will brush your cheek and grip your hair, letters that will bite you, letters that will mark you. I'll write you by bullet ant and spider wasp; I'll write you by shark's tooth and scallop shell; I'll write you by virus and the salt of a ninth wave flooding your lungs...

Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly. -Morticia Adams

Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

I’d never been one to take the easy path in life. Easy was for people too weak to suck it up and do what needed to be done. And I wasn’t weak. Not anymore.

Handcuffs. Kinky. But I prefer to have a bit more freedom during sex. Don’t you?

Ding-dong," I said. "The bitch is dead.

Executive vice president? That’s a nice way of saying he’s someone’s corporate bitch.

Honesty will get you killed in this city.

The littlest spiders have the darkest bite.

She used to imagine her parents and happy endings she would never have. Now she envisioned torments that were all too real. She pictured one of Cinderella's stepsisters planting her foot on a cutting board - and biting down hard as the cleaver chopped through the bone of her big toe. She imagined a princess used to safety, luxury, throwing the rank hide of a donkey over her shoulders, its boneless face drooping past her forehead like a hideous veil. And she imagined her future self, flat on her back in bed, limbs as heavy as if they'd been chained down. Mice scurried across her body, leaving footprints on her dress. Spiders spun an entire trousseau's worth of silk and draped her in it, so it appeared she wore a gown of the finest lace, adorned with rose petals and ensnared butterflies. Beetles nestled between her fingers like jeweled rings - lovely from a distance, horrific up close.

Peter Parker: I mean, what I do sometimes requires violence, but I'm not a violent man, I'm really not. But I just-- Mary Jane: You wanted to deck her. Peter: Twice. And I hate feeling that way. Why is it that people feel the need to take whatever little authority they have and shove it down your throat? And the smaller the authority, the bigger the shove. Aunt May: It offends you, doesn't it? Peter: Yeah, it does. Aunt May: Why? Peter: I -- What do you mean, why? Aunt May: Why does it offend you? Peter: Shouldn't it? Aunt May: If a lion broke out of its cage at the zoo, and bit you, it would hurt, sure, and you'd be upset, of course. But would you be offended? Peter: No, of course not. Aunt May: Why? Peter: Because that's the nature of a lion. Aunt May: Some people by nature are kind and charitable. You could say that some people, including at least one person at this table, are by their nature heroes. Ben always reminded me that we each contain all the nobler and meaner aspects of humanity, but some get a bigger dose than others of one thing or another. Some are petty, and mean, and uncharitable. That's their nature. You can hope for better, even try to lead them to be and you may even succeed. But when they behave badly, it's right to be upset by it, or hurt by it, but you can be no more offended by it than you can when a lion bites you.

The cold knot of rage in my chest started beating like a clock, a slow, steady countdown to Alexis James’s death. Tick-fucking-tock.

Our true fear of the zombie was never that its bite would turn us into one of them. Our fear is that we are already zombies.

Don’t you understand what I’ve done?” Caine asked. “I’ve gone against everything I believe in. And for what? You?

Emotions flickered in the amber depths, one after another, like lightning bugs winking on and off. Disgust. Anger. Mistrust. Suspicion. Curiosity.

What you’re saying is this spider, with a brain the size of strawberry seed, hid in your car with its face covered to avoid being gassed by insect spray.” He stood in front of me, laughing, peering down into my eyes. “And then, when the fumes dispersed, he set about plotting revenge. Once he’d come up with his plan, he exited your car and, even though he didn’t see which direction you went in, he found the front door because he knew you were inside this house.” Biting down on his bottom lip, Ric smirked. “Don’t you think, if he was as smart as all that, he’d have worn a mask before he ran out from under visor so you couldn’t recognise him on your doormat?

Thirty minutes later I reached my destination—the Pork Pit.

Ich heiße Gin, und ich töte Menschen.

Information was like an aphrodisiac to Finn. Uncovering people's secrets an amusing game.

Oh here's a nice one, he brown recluse spider. This once resides in wooded areas. In other words, next to my head while I'm sleeping. ' In a small number of cases, a bite from a brown recluse can produce organ damage with occasional fatalities.' " "That's the worst-case scenario. how can it be? It's called a 'recluse'" "It's been my experience that all recluses have a mean streak.

There is no path to the future, Fitz. The path is now. Now is all there is, or ever will be. You can change perhaps the next ten breaths in your life. But after that, random chance seizes you in its jaws again. A tree falls on you, a spider bites your ankle, and all your grand plans for winning a battle are for naught. Now is what we have, Fitz, and now is where we act to stay alive.

Nature works by subtle, secret means—man's invisible seed, spider bite, the viewless spores of madness and of death, rocks that are born in earth's unknown bowels, the silent stars a-creep across the sky—and we thieves copy her.

It had been two weeks since they had last danced, and Azalea lay in bed, awake again. A dream hadn't roused her this time, but rather an odd tinny noise that had been clinking across the wooden floor of their room, under their beds and butting against the wainscot with a clinkety tap-tap. It sounded like ... well, quite honestly, it sounded like a spider dragging a spoon. Azalea knew it couldn't possibly be that (or, rather, she hoped it wasn't), but even so, she heaved herself from the bed and grasped one of Hollyhock's boots, strewn across the floor. The tapping now clinked from the fireplace, and Azalea caught a glint of silver among the soot. Raising the boot, she tiptoed to the unlit hearth. The fireplace in their room was massive - so large that Azalea could stand up in it and her skirts wouldn't brush the sides. The silver hopped. Azalea dove. In a puff of soot, Azalea found herself sitting in the hearth, and the silver bit skittering away like mad. Azalea grabbed at it and was rewarded with a very sharp, very familiar bite. "You!" Azalea seethed, leaping up. Now she recognized the half-hopping half-skitter motion. The sugar teeth!

Rider. This witch is like a spider lurking at the center of a great web, and she has venom in her bite.” “Then it’s good I’m not scared of spiders.

There is no path to the future, Fitz. The path is now. Now is all there is, or ever will be. You can change perhaps the next breaths in your life. But after that, random chance seizes you in its jaws again. A tree falls on you, a spider bites your ankle, and all your grand plans for winning a battle are for naught. Now is what we have, Fitz, and now is where we act to stay alive.

WHEN YOU ARE A KID you have your own language, and unlike French or Spanish or whatever you start learning in fourth grade, this one you’re born with, and eventually lose. Everyone under the age of seven is fluent in Ifspeak; go hang around with someone under three feet tall and you’ll see. What if a giant funnelweb spider crawled out of that hole over your head and bit you on the neck? What if the only antidote for venom was locked up in a vault on the top of a mountain? What if you lived through the bite, but could only move your eyelids and blink out an alphabet? It doesn’t really matter how far you go; the point is that it’s a world of possibility. Kids think with their brains cracked wide open; becoming an adult, I’ve decided, is only a slow sewing shut. •

I am preprogrammed, acting on impulse, dumping a vast memory into a whirling pool and somehow bringing order to it. Building a complex web. I am the spider. This is my venomous bite. I will make them see their folly.

When I was little I would think of ways to kill my daddy. I would figure out this or that way and run it down through my head until it got easy. The way I liked best was letting go a poisonous spider in his bed. It would bite him and he'd be dead and swollen up and I would shudder to find him so. Of course I would call the rescue squad and tell them to come quick something's the matter with my daddy. When they come in the house I'm all in a state of shock and just don't know how to act what with two colored boys heaving my dead daddy onto a roller cot. I just stand in the door and look like I'm shaking all over. But I did not kill my daddy. He drank his own self to death the year after the County moved me out. I heard how they found him shut up in the house dead and everything. Next thing I know he's in the ground and the house is rented out to a family of four. All I did was wish him dead real hard every now and then. All I can say for a fact that I am better off now than when he was alive.

It had a strange resemblance to Kafka's novel,The Trial- that dream-like allegory of a man who,having received a mysterious convocation to attend his 'trial",strives and struggles in vain to find out where the trial would be held and what it would be about; wherever he inquires he receives non - commital,elusive replies,as if everybody has joined in a secret conspiracy:the closer he gets to his aim,the farther it recedes,like the transparent walls of a dream:and the story ends abruptly,as it began,in tormenting suspense.The High Court which Kafka's hero is unable to find is his own conscience:but what was the symbolic meaning of all these nut-cracker-faced,nail-biting,pimpled,slimy features,spinning their spider webs of intrigue and sabotage in the bureaux of the French Administration?Perhaps I was really guilty,I and my like:perhaps our guilt was the past,the guilt of having forseen the catastrophe and yet failed to open the eyes of the blind.But if we were guilty-who were they to sit in judgement over us?

The hostility of this landscape teaches me how to be quiet and unobtrusive, how to find grace among spiders with a poisonous bite. I sat on a lone boulder in the midst of the curlews. By now, they had grown accustomed to me. This too, I found encouraging—that in the face of stressful intrusions, we can eventually settle in. One begins to almost trust the intruder as a presence that demands greater intent toward life. On a day like today when the air is dry and smells of salt, I have found my open space, my solitude, and sky. And I have found the birds who require it.

Time overlaps itself. A breath breathed from a passing breeze is not the whole wind, neither is it just the last of what has passed and the first of what will come, but is more—let me see—more like a single point plucked on a single strand of a vast spider web of winds, setting the whole scene atingle. That way; it overlaps. . . . As prehistoric ferns grow from bathtub planters. As a shiny new ax, taking a swing at somebody’s next year’s split-level pinewood pad, bites all the way to the Civil War. As proposed highways break down through the stacked strata of centuries.

A bee, though small, can still sting you; an elephant, though calm, can still trample you; and a lion, though full, can still devour you. An ant, though small, can still bite you; a spider, though tiny, can still infect you; and a wolf, though little, can still harm you. A petal, though innocuous, can still poison you; a flower, though delicate, can still contaminate you; and a plant, though immature, can still toxify you. A thought, though entertaining, can still pollute you; a desire, though pleasing, can still defile you; and an experience, though pleasurable, can still dishonor you.

Sneaky and underhanded, the Federal Reserve has been sucking the life blood out of the United States since 1913. Like a black widow spider, it weaves a web of corruption and deceit. Unknown to its prey, the FED's bite is poisonous, deep, long-lasting and brings financial upheaval and misery to Americans.

Charity gave him a disapproving look. “Inciting a member of our head family to steal one of our core secrets is a grave offense. Especially for a Sage. You might say that with great power comes great responsib—” Charity shuddered as though she’d sensed something. Lindon frowned. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t know…I just suddenly got the feeling that if I completed that sentence, I would immediately die.” “You could phrase it differently,” Lindon suggested. “I’ll try.” Charity straightened her spine and spoke again. “Power like yours carries heavy responsibility.” She paused, waiting for something, and neither of them sensed anything ominous this time. Charity let out a breath of relief. “That was very strange,” she said. Lindon slapped his forearm. “Now what was that?” Charity asked. “Oh, it’s nothing. A spider tried to bite me, but I got it in time.” Lindon brushed his arm clean. “Now, what were you saying?

You've made vampire spiders?" Now it was her turn to wonder if her was serious. He should know that was't a possibility. "They don't transform, just as animals and insects don't if they drink vampire blood" "Can you imagine vampire mosquitoes? Or immortal, blood-sucking ants who make you feel all sexy when they bite

Imagine the typical emotional reaction to seeing a spider: fear, ranging from minor trepidation to terror. But what is the likelihood of dying from a spider bite? Fewer than four people a year (on average) die from spider bites, establishing the expected risk of death by spider at lower than 1 in 100 million. This risk is so minuscule that it is actually counterproductive to worry about it: Millions of people die each year from stress-related illnesses. The startling implication is that the risk of being bitten and killed by a spider is less than the risk that being afraid of spiders will kill you because of the increased stress.

Black Widow by Stewart Stafford She blinds me with her caress. Hand upon my chest, Venom kisses like snake bites ecstatic and unbecoming night. She drags me to her tomb, graveyard of many a groom, Lovers wrapped in silken lace, In webs of death, find their place. Creeping dawn on morn, Frostbitten and reborn, Clinging on so tight, Her kiss, the shroud of night. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

My pet is crawling up the side of her face, and I can see the fear in her expression—it makes me chuckle. “The itsy bitsy spider,” I whisper against her ear, sliding in and out of her cunt. “Climbed up the waterspout.” My tone is surprisingly good, considering. Maybe it’s the fact I’m distracted by my body pressed against hers, or the way her pussy clutches at my cock as I keep thrusting, her breaths gasping out of her in both fear and pleasure. “Down came the rain,” I say slowly, biting my lip and groaning as I get deeper into her depths. “And washed… the spider… out.

Sydney has no box jellyfish, I was pleased to learn. The famous local danger is the funnel web spider, the most poisonous insect in the world with a venom that is “highly toxic and fast-acting.” A single nip, if not promptly treated, will leave you bouncing around in the grip of seizures of an incomparable liveliness; then you turn blue; then you die. Thirteen deaths are on record, though none since 1981, when an antidote was devised. Also poisonous are white-tailed spiders, mouse spiders, wolf spiders, our old friend the redback (“hundreds of bites are reported each year…about a dozen known deaths”), and a reclusive but fractious type called the fiddleback.

Their cook at Badenoch was a crotchety old lady who hadn't tried a new recipe in decades. "Dinna tell Mrs. MacGuff that or she'll put a spider in your tea." "Try it and tell me 'tis not worth the risk." He tore off a corner of the bridie and lifted the bite to Katherine's lips. It fairly melted on her tongue. In addition to the crusty pasty, a unique mix of spices seasoned the savory meat inside, a burst of sensations for her mouth. "Och, you're right. This is worth braving a spider. I'll get Cook to show me how she makes these, and then Mrs. MacGuff will either learn from me or she'll have to suffer my presence in her kitchen from time to time. And we know how she loves that!" "So," he said smugly, his dark eyes alight with triumph, "ye do intend to come home with me after Christmas, then.

There are two gradations of cold that are always acceptable: Mild Frost, which is preferable for reading and writing and any other activity done indoors, and Absolute Zero, which is the only temperature suitable for sleep. There is nothing more delicious than being swathed in a cocoon of blankets and awaking with a nose frosted over with rime, and once I do achieve vampiric heights and fall asleep with the mastery of a corpse lately dead, I am best left alone until I wake up at my usual time. I do tend to bite when rattled out of my flocculent coffin, and everyone in my building knows never to disturb me during the early morning hours. Authors, being crepuscular creatures, should never be roused before 11am: the creative mind is never turned off; it only dies momentarily and its revived by the scent of coffee at the proper time. Bacon is also an acceptable restorative.

No biting, babe,” he cautioned, his cock jerking hard in his fist at the thought. Her gaze jumped back to his cock. A slow smile curved her mouth and lit the green of her eyes. “A little fear can add to the excitement of what we’re doing here.” She quoted him nearly word for word—threw his words back in his face and left him wondering if she intended to bite him. “You bite me and there’s going to be all sorts of trouble. I love your ass. I really do. That sweet curve would look good with my handprints on it, all warmed up and nerve endings screaming for more. You’d be so wet for me, baby. Let me up. Let me make you feel good.” “If that’s supposed to be a deterrent, or a punishment, I have to tell you, Trap, it doesn’t sound like one.” She said it with a small smile on her face, once again leaving him wondering if she intended to bite him. Yeah. Okay. That made him hotter

Freddy and his brother Tesoro have not seen each other in five years, and they sit at the kitchen table in Freddy's house and have a jalapeno contest. A large bowl of big green and orange jalapeno peppers sit between the two brothers. A saltshaker and two small glasses of beer accompany this feast. When Tesoro nods his head, the two men begin to eat the raw jalapenos. The contest is to see which man can eat more peppers. It is a ritual from their father, but the two brothers tried it only once, years ago. Both quit after two peppers and laughed it off. This time, things are different. They are older and have to prove a point. Freddy eats his first one more slowly than Tesoro, who takes to bites to finish his and is now on his second. Neither says anything, though a close study of each man's face would tell you the sudden burst of jalapeno energy does not waste time in changing the eater's perception of reality. Freddy works on his second as Tesoro rips into his fourth. Freddy is already sweating from his head and is surprised to see that Tesoro's fat face has not shanged its steady, consuming look. Tesoro's long, black hair is neatly combed, and not one bead of sweat has popped out. He is the first to sip from the beer before hitting his fifth jalapeno. Freddy leans back as the table begins to sway in his damp vision. He coughs, and a sharp pain rips through his chest. Tesoro attempts to laugh at his brother, but Freddy sees it is something else. As Freddy finishes his third jalapeno, Tesoro begins to breathe faster upon swallowing his sixth. The contest momentarily stops as both brothers shift in their seats and the sweat pours down their faces. Freddy clutches his stomach as he reaches for his fourth delight. Tesor has not taken his seventh, and it is clear to Freddy that his brother is suffering big-time. There is a bright blue bird sitting on Tesoro's head, and Tesoro is struggling to laugh because Freddy has a huge red spider crawling on top of his head. Freddy wipes the sweat from his eyes and finishes his fourth pepper. Tesoro sips more beer, sprinkles salt on the tip of his jalapeno, and bites it down to the stem. Freddy, who has not touched his beer, stares in amazement as two Tesoros sit in front of him. They both rise hastily, their beer guts pushing the table against Freddy, who leans back as the two Tesoros waver in the kitchen light. Freddy hears a tremendous fart erupt from his brother, who sits down again. Freddy holds his fifth jalapeno and can't breathe. Tesoro's face is purple, but the blue bird has been replaced by a burning flame of light that weaves over Tesoro's shiny head. Freddy is convinced that he is having a heart attack as he watches his brother fight for breath. Freddy bites into his fifth as Tesoro flips his eighth jalapeno into his mouth, stem and all. This is it. Freddy goes into convulsions and drops to the floor as he tries to reach for his glass of beer. He shakes on the dirty floor as the huge animal that is Tesoro pitches forward and throws up millions of jalapeno seeds all over the table. The last thing Freddy sees before he passes out is his brother's body levitating above the table as an angel, dressed in green jalapeno robes, floats into the room, extends a hand to Tesoro, and floats away with him. When Freddy wakes up minutes later, he gets up and makes it to the bathroom before his body lets go through his pants. As he reaches the bathroom door, he turns and gazes upon the jalapeno plants growing healthy and large on the kitchen table, thick peppers hanging under their leaves, their branches immersed in the largest pile of jalapeno seeds Freddy has ever seen.

A snake doesn't need feet in grass. A seed doesn't need eyes in soil. A bird doesn't need a parachute in air. A fish doesn't need a suit in water. A bee doesn't need sugar in a hive. A spider doesn't need thread in a bush. A flower doesn't need perfume in a garden. A bat doesn't need binoculars in a cave. A giraffe doesn't need a ladder in the woods. A cricket doesn't need a violin in nature. A camel doesn't need wheels in a desert. A wolf doesn't need a knife in a forest. A lion doesn't need a spear in a jungle. If you throw a bird off a cliff, you are helping it find its wings. If you throw a fish into water, you are helping it find its fins. If you throw a seed into soil, you are helping it find its roots. If you throw a bat into the dark, you are helping it find its eyes. If you throw a flower into dirt, you are helping it find its petals. If you throw a cub into the jungle, you are helping it find its fight. If you throw a camel into the desert, you are helping it find its stride. If you throw a scorpion into nature, you are helping it find its sting. If you throw a serpent into grass, you are helping it find its fangs. If you throw a wolf into the jungle, you are helping it find its bite.

A bird doesn't need a professor to teach it how to fly. A fish doesn't need a professor to teach it how to swim. A bee doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sting. A termite doesn't need a professor to teach it how to build. A spider doesn't need a professor to teach it how to weave. A cricket doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sing. A parrot doesn't need a professor to teach it how to mimic. A serpent doesn't need a professor to teach it how to bite. A chameleon doesn't need a professor to teach it how to camouflage. A sheep doesn't need a professor to teach it how to follow. A horse doesn't need a professor to teach it how to sprint. A monkey doesn't need a professor to teach it how to steal. A camel doesn't need a professor to teach it how to survive. A dog doesn't need a professor to teach it how to bark. A cheetah doesn't need a professor to teach it how to race. A fox doesn't need a professor to teach it how to scheme. A crocodile doesn't need a professor to teach it how to float. An hyena doesn't need a professor to teach it how to stalk. A panther doesn't need a professor to teach it how to strike. A wolf doesn't need a professor to teach it how to kill. A lion doesn't need a professor to teach it how to hunt.

Holy gallnipper, how long till we hit the magic trail? It’s gloomier than my own funeral I here.” Camille adjusted the bag’s rope and looked at Ira. “Don’t even joke about that.” Since the moment they’d entered the forest, she’d felt like something was listening. Like they’d woken some sleeping creature, and now it followed them with silent cunning. The deafening chants had not returned to pierce her eardrums, but danger still felt close. A few paces ahead of her, Oscar peeled away another cobweb, the octagonal spinning so massive Camille didn’t even want to imagine the size of the spider that had created it. “Mate, you got a stomach made of iron,” Ira said. A flash of orange and black swept in front of Camille’s eyes and she felt an odd tug on her dress. She looked down and froze. A spider with a body the size of her first flexed its hairy legs on her skirt. It started to scuttle up. Her scream echoed through the forest as she swiped the spider off. It hit the marshy ground and scampered under a log. Oscar grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Did it bite you?” She shook her head, arms and legs stiff with fear. “I’ve never seen one so bloody big,” Ira said, running past the log as though the spider would leap out at him. Oscar started walking again, his hand on the small of her back. She exhaled with more than one kind of relief. He was at least still concerned for her. As they started to pick up their pace, another black critter swung down from a nearby tree. Camille say it flying toward them, but her warning shout was too slow. The spider landed on Oscar’s shoulder, fat and furry and swift as its legs darted up his neck. Oscar shouted an obscenity as he whacked the giant from his skin. Camille heard it thud against the leafy forest floor. Unfazed, the spider quickly sprang to its finger-length legs and darted toward her boot. Her shrieks echoed again as it leaped onto her hem. With his foot, Ira knocked the spider back to the ground, and before it could bounce back up, Oscar smashed it with a stick. The squashed giant oozed yellow-and-green blood onto the marshy ground. Camille gagged and tasted her breakfast oats in the back of her mouth. “What in all wrath are those monsters?” Ira panted as he twisted around, looking for more. Camille looked up to the trees to try and spot any others that might be descending from glossy webbing. Terror paralyzed her as her eyes landed on a colony of glistening webs in the treetops. An endless number of black dots massed above their heads, dangling from tree limbs. Oscar and Ira followed her horrified stare. “Run,” Oscar whispered. Camille sprinted forward, her skin and scalp tingling with imaginary spider legs. The bag of provisions slammed against her back, tugging at her neck, but she didn’t care. They didn’t slow down until the gigantic spiderwebs grew sparse and the squawk of birds took over.

I could do this. I just had to be careful and not punch her. Piece of cake. “Hi,” Heather said, stretching the word. She walked carefully, as if worried I’d bite her. “Hi!” Kate Daniels, a good neighbor. Would you like some cookies? “I’m sorry to bother you . . . What is that smell?” Spider guts. “How can I help you?” “Umm, the neighbors asked me to bring some issues to your attention.” I bet they did, and she bravely soldiered under that burden. “Shoot.” “It’s about the mailbox.” I could see the communal mailbox out of the corner of my eye. It seemed intact. “You see, the mailman saw your husband during one of his walks.” “He’s my fiancé,” I told her. “We are living in sin.” Heather blinked, momentarily knocked off her stride, but recovered. “Oh, that’s nice.” “It’s very nice. I highly recommend it.” “As I was saying, he saw your fiancé when he was in his animal shape. How to put it . . . He became alarmed.” That was generally a normal reaction when encountering Curran for the first time. “We are not sure if they will deliver mail again.” “Did you receive any official notices from the post office?” “No, but . . .” Heather tried a smile. “We were thinking maybe your fiancé could not do that anymore.” “Do what?” I had a sudden urge to strangle Heather. I was so tired of people acting like Curran was an inhuman spree killer who would murder babies in their sleep. “Walk around in his animal shape.” No strangling. Strangling would not be neighborly. “It would also be nice if he limited the range of his walks.” I had had a really long day. My nerves were stretched thin and she was jumping up and down on the last of them. I inhaled slowly. Two years of sorting shapeshifter politics and their run-ins with humans had to count for something.

Oh, but to get through this night. Why won’t sleep come? What’s bothering me here in the dark? It’s not the badgers, it’s not the snakes. What’s bothering me? Something darker is worrying a hole inside me—look how my legs are trembling. Stop moving, Tatiana. That’s how the carnivores find you, by the flash of life on your body, they find you and eat you while you sleep. Like venomous spiders, they’ll bite you first to lull you into sleep—you won’t even feel it—and then they will gnaw your flesh until nothing remains. But even the animals eating her alive was not the thing that worried the sick hole in Tatiana’s stomach as she lay in the leaves with her face hidden from the forest, with her arms over her head, in case anything decided to fall on her. She should’ve made herself a shelter but it got dark so fast, and she was so sure she would find the lake, she hadn’t been thinking of making herself more comfortable in the woods. She kept walking and walking, and then was downed and breathless and unprepared for pitch black night. To quell the terror inside her, to not hear her own voices, Tatiana whimpered. Lay and cried, low and afraid. What was tormenting her from the inside out? Was it worry over Marina? No... not quite. But close. Something about Marina. Something about Saika... Saika. The girl who caused trouble between Dasha and her dentist boyfriend, the girl who pushed her bike into Tatiana’s bike to make her fall under the tires of a downward truck rushing headlong... the girl who saw Tatiana’s grandmother carrying a sack of sugar and told her mother who told her father who told the Luga Soviet that Vasily Metanov harbored sugar he had no intention of giving up? The girl who did something so unspeakable with her own brother she was nearly killed by her own father’s hand—and she herself had said the boy got worse—and this previously unmentioned brother was, after all, dead. The girl who stood unafraid under rowan trees and sat under a gaggle of crows and did not feel black omens, the girl who told Tatiana her wicked stories, tempted Tatiana with her body, turned away from Marina as Marina was drowning...who turned Marina against Tatiana, the girl who didn’t believe in demons, who thought everything was all good in the universe, could she . . . What if...? What if this was not an accident? Moaning loudly, Tatiana turned away to the other side as if she’d just had a nightmare. But she hadn’t been dreaming. Saika took her compass and her knife. But Marina took her watch. And there it was. That was the thing eating up Tatiana from the inside out. Could Marina have been in on something like this? Twisting from side to side did not assuage her torn stomach, did not mollify her sunken heart. Making anguished noises, her eyes closed, she couldn’t think of fields, or Luga, or swimming, or clover or warm milk, anything. All good thoughts were drowned in the impossible sorrow. Could Marina have betrayed her?

Well one tiny poisonous spider can kill a very large man if it bites him in the right place.

Carlyle went around to the back of the vehicle and opened the door. He held out his hand, and the woman took it and stepped up and away from the sedan, as though she were some debutante exiting her limo at her coming-out party. Pretentious bitch. “Damn it,” I cursed. “She’s on the far side of the car with her back to me, and she’s wearing a long, black cloak. Who the fuck wears a cloak? This isn’t Dungeons & Dragons.

That is why we fear the zombie. The zombie looks like a man, walks like a man, eats and otherwise functions fully, yet is devoid of the spark. It represents the nagging doubt that lays deep in the heart of even the most zealous believer: behind all of your pretty songs and stained glass, this is what you really are. Shambling meat. Our true fear of the zombie was never that its bite would turn us into one of them. Our fear is that we are already zombies.

I kept a wary eye on the large huntsman spiders, which grew as big as your hand. It took me a long time to get my mind around the fact that Steve wasn’t going to come running every time I saw a spider or a big bug. After a while I figured out that there was really nothing from which he needed to save me. Neither the strange insects nor the spiders were dangerous. In fact, eventually one of the giant spiders would eat one of the giant cockroaches. The subtropics featured great indoor ecosystems, as well as outdoor ones. Steve always patiently explained to me that the giant huntsman spiders rarely bit humans. One night he had the opportunity to prove himself wrong. He rolled over one in his sleep, and the next morning he had a bruise and two little fang marks on his body. He was most concerned because of the specific location of the bite. I gleefully explained to anyone who would listen that Steve had this giant spider-bite bruise on a part of his anatomy that “will remain undisclosed.” That story made the rounds for a long time.

What happened?” Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks color in embarrassment. “I saw a spider. I know it was foolish to take a shot at the damned thing, but it frightened me. I hate being afraid.” “A spider,” he echoed like a half-wit. “You tried to shoot a spider.” Relief replaced his terror. “I thought you—” Mirthless laughter broke off his tirade. “You thought I tried to do myself in?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Do you truly think I would take such a drastic measure after hearing a bit of unpleasant news? And if I did, that I would utilize such a messy, crude method? In such a case I would likely use poison…or leap from one of those high cliffs into the sea…” “Enough!” Vincent cut her off. “I am sorry I caused you undue alarm, my lord.” Her voice remained unnaturally brittle. “I merely wanted a few minutes of solitude, a peaceful nighttime walk. Y-you may return to your guest.” The

When I started sixth grade, the other kids made fun of Brian and me because we were so skinny. They called me spider legs, skeleton girl, pipe cleaner, two-by-four, bony butt, stick woman, bean pole, and giraffe, and they said I could stay dry in the rain by standing under a telephone wire. At lunchtime, when other kids unwrapped their sandwiches or bought their hot meals, Brian and I would get out books and read. Brian told everyone he had to keep his weight down because he wanted to join the wrestling team when he got to high school. I told people that I had forgotten to bring my lunch. No one believed me, so I started hiding in the bathroom during lunch hour. I’d stay in one of the stalls with the door locked and my feet propped up so that no one would recognize my shoes. When other girls came in and threw away their lunch bags in the garbage pails, I’d go retrieve them. I couldn’t get over the way kids tossed out all this perfectly good food: apples, hard-boiled eggs, packages of peanut-butter crackers, sliced pickles, half-pint cartons of milk, cheese sandwiches with just one bite taken out because the kid didn’t like the pimentos in the cheese. I’d return to the stall and polish off my tasty finds. There was, at times, more food in the wastebasket than I could eat. The first time I found extra food—a bologna-and-cheese sandwich—I stuffed it into my purse to take home for Brian. Back in the classroom, I started worrying about how I’d explain to Brian where it came from. I was pretty sure he was rooting through the trash, too, but we never talked about it. As I sat there trying to come up with ways to justify it to Brian, I began smelling the bologna. It seemed to fill the whole room. I became terrified that the other kids could smell it, too, and that they’d turn and see my overstuffed purse, and since they all knew I never ate lunch, they’d figure out that I had pinched it from the trash. As soon as class was over, I ran to the bathroom and shoved the sandwich back in the garbage can.

Not one single thing has God created in vain. He created the snail as a remedy for a blister; the fly for the sting of a wasp; the gnat for the bite of a serpent; the serpent itself for healing the itch (or the scab); and the lizard (or the spider) for the sting of a scorpion. Ibid., fol. 77. col. 2.

I start to wonder if there be any chance of schooling for any of them, for who will take to teaching a child that could kill her with one bite?

There was still no light, but somehow now I could see my legs. I could see my legs and the hundreds of spiders suddenly crawling all over them, swarming my body like they planned to smother me. I screamed, then. I screamed and screamed as their tiny legs crawled all over me, touching every inch of my body, burrowing under my clothes. And then they started to bite me. Over and over and over and all I could do was howl in agony and terror while their venom flooded my bloodstream and paralyzed me.

He must have been bitten by a spidorion. Half spider, half scorpion, and one hundred percent from Hell itself. These creatures are in for the hunt. They bite and their venom doesn’t hit you right away. It’s a slow build and the longer your heart beats, the more the venom spreads. Spidorions can smell the infected and slowly hunt them until their prey is paralyzed from head to toe. Then, they wrap their victims in a thick layer of webbing, stab their chests with their scorpion tails, and take their meals to their nest where they feast. Sick, sadistic bastards.

A bite from the Brazilian wandering spider results in an erection that lasts for several hours.

Noticing where his companion was looking, Zamna said, “It doesn’t taste as good as it looks, I can promise you that.” Taren paid him no heed, so he added, “It’s venomous, and I’d recommend staying away from it.” Seeing his companion still had not budged, he said, “It can jump three times its body length, and it will attack prey much larger than itself.” With a frown, Taren backed away slowly. The spider’s many eyes glistened, and its pincers moved ever so slightly. Though he thought himself too large a meal to be in danger, he didn’t want to antagonize the arachnid. Taren came to Zamna’s side with a grin. “It wouldn’t really try to eat a human, would it?” “Those spiders bite you once to paralyze you. Then, they wrap you in a nice little cocoon while you’re still very much alive. After that, you slowly begin turning to liquid, until there’s nothing left but ooze. The spider can slurp at that to its heart’s content, even if it takes months.” Zamna’s eyes betrayed no lie. Taren took one last look at the massive arachnid.

And like the dictator, if the spider was ever removed from power, if some fearful liberating sponge were to wipe away its sticky veil of power, there would be no order anymore and all of those bloodsucking insects, they would be free to bite and suck and wreak havoc in this humid cramped space. John feared the spider, but he was thankful that it was there.

asparagus for treating jaundice, toothache and as an antidote for venomous spider bites. 

Unfortunately, there is something dramatic about spider bites in general and brown recluse bites in particular that causes them to be frequently diagnosed. In discussions with physicians, they readily admit that the diagnosis of “spider bite” is a safe determination because it can neither be proven nor disproven.

Shifting Blame An article by Benoit and Suchard in Consultant in 2006 brought up an interesting point about why brown recluse spider bites and generic spider bites are so widely believed in by the general public: people have difficulty accepting that the root of an affliction of theirs is an internal cause that might be considered a weakness. This is even more difficult when it might be some lifestyle choice of the patient that possibly contributes to the problem. Sometimes skin wounds appear as a result of an intrinsic condition such as a virus or venereal disease. Perhaps a lifestyle choice is involved, such as a lip cancer lesion due to chewing tobacco. In such cases, it is comforting to consider that the affliction is not the fault of the sufferers. A spider “attacked” them while they were sleeping. Nothing they could have done would have prevented this accident.

Also, when the press reports on brown recluses, it is common for the recluses to be referred to as “deadly spiders” (Fig. 8.3). Think about this for a second. Most brown recluse bites heal very nicely and death is extremely rare. The same newspapers would never publish an article headed “Mother Takes Innocent Children to Soccer Practice in a Deadly Car.” Yet there will be many more vehicle-related fatalities every day than deaths from brown recluse spider bites in a decade.

One example of this damage occurs when ill-informed physicians diagnose brown recluse spider bites as the cause of skin lesions in areas of the continent where recluse spiders of any species are exceedingly rare or have never been found. When the quantity of brown recluse bite diagnoses greatly outnumbers the verified specimens of recluse spiders in a particular area, it logically follows that the spiders cannot be responsible for all these incidents. Some of these misdiagnosed skin conditions, such as cancer, lymphoma, group A Streptococcus bacterial infection, and Lyme disease, can cause great suffering, irreversible damage, and possibly death. When a wrong diagnosis is made, spider bite treatment is ineffective and the correct treatment is delayed or never given.

Want 2 (Feat. Porsches)" Don't wanna take it slow I could be your fantasy You gotta let me know You gotta let me know Don't wanna take it slow I could be your ecstasy But I gotta let you know Gotta let you know I'm running like a white horse I'm running like a tiger, yeah I'm walking on a tight boat I'm??? like a lighthouse I'm hot like a fire I'll bite you like a spider, yeah I'm smoking like a white ghost I'm shining like a lamp post, yeah I can give you everything that I want to That I want to Coming on strong girl we can get it done If you want to, if you want to Don't wanna take it slow I could be your fantasy You gotta let me know You gotta let me know Don't wanna take it slow I could be your ecstasy But I gotta let you know Gotta let you know I'm running like a white horse I'm running like a tiger, yeah I'm walking on a tight boat I'm??? like a lighthouse I'm hot like a fire I'll bite you like a spider, yeah I'm smoking like a white ghost I'm shining like a lamp post, yeah I can give you everything that I want to That I want to Coming on strong girl we can get it done If you want to, if you want to I keep you coming, I keep you coming I keep you coming, I keep you coming I keep you coming, I keep you coming I keep you coming, I keep you coming I can give you everything that I want to That I want to Coming on strong girl we can get it done If you want to, if you want to