That's when shit got hectic. There was rap on the door. "Ah fuck it, for real? Yeah, yeah, hang on - Jesus." Bang bang, the door went again. I flung the door back. "Jesus, ALRIGHT! Lisa?" I stood aghast, it was my pal Lisa from facebook. How to explain Lisa? Its tough, she is somewhat a force of nature. Lisa sings for a metal outfit called Death's Hand and, when in character, she goes by the stage name of Blonde Witch of the North. As her name suggests, she rocks platinum blonde hair. Long and dead straight. She struts the stage in a shining, tighter than tight latex catsuit, zippered down well past the navel, her wonderful tits barely held in place with Hollywood tape. As tall and imposing as Lisa already is, she further enhances that on stage with knee high patent leather spike heeled boots. On stage and in life she had real presence. Today however, she was dressed head to foot in rocker babe noir: black leather biker jacket with a tight wife beater under that. The jacket was. We are arachnea. we EAT nasty soft little gibbering creatures. I clash my fangs twice as I attempt to grin. Damn. I'm gonna miss my face. And my booze. Now I digest alcohol and antifreeze like sugar, just another food source.Wait. Wait for it. There. I am first among the triggered. I am of command rank. We have arrived.My pedipalps rise to fire the latches and my cell opens. I stretch to my full height and breadth for the first time in my six hundred years. Suddenly the phrase "Dreaming my life away" takes on a whole new meaning. I remember music. Never again.I stalk down the dark corridor, easily making out the shapes in the dark. A never-seen yet familiar junction takes me up to the command deck. I pull myself easlily up the tube finding small regular pockets in the walls with the tips of my pedipalps. I rise into the room to find the ship's central nest. It calls to me and I obey. New scent triggers strike me and memories flood my senses. Racial memory. Clan wars. The great.
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