“P-e-t-e-r!”
“Jesus, what is that?”
“Get it off!”
Granny Sims shook. Her slippers bumped the carpet. Her fingers curled tighter on the arm of the chair, as the thing in her lap – no doubt a grape pack stowaway – raised a pair of shiny black pinchers, and snapped them at her.
“Peter!”
He searched for a piece of paper, or anything he could use, until his eyes discovered a tumbler of gin perched on the coffee table. Half a second later, the liquid swam like a puddle of pee on the floor, and Pete went to jug the grape bug. It took off and scuttled up the front of Granny’s dress – headed for the seam of her cleavage.
She screamed. Her hands released their grip on the chair arms and swatted.
The thing evaded, determined to burrow inside her clothes, but Granny Sims snatched the tip of its tail. She hurled it back, screamed, and sent it whirling through the air.
It hit the wall with a thunk, left a green splat mark, and slithered down the wallpaper.
“Quick, Peter,” Granny yelled. “Step on it.”
The idea of squishing the spindly thing put a spoonful of jellied eels in Pete’s stomach, but the grape bug, half splattered, was already finding its pin prick feet, snapping its claws and shaking what remained of its scorpion tail – half had broken off when Granny Sims cast it across the room. Black blobs of what looked like oil sloshed from its wounds.
“Get it, Peter!”
He lifted his foot and stomped down, but the bug shot off at a rate that doubled the speed of even the most athletic spider.
“Peter!”
He chased after it. His big foot stamped the threadbare carpet. One of the bug’s long legs caught beneath his boot, but it carried on running, leaving the still twitching limb behind.
Pete could have sworn he heard it yelp, but then again, perhaps the terrible noise came from Granny Sims, who was shrieking directions from her chair.
“Get it, Peter, get it.”
But it was gone. The grape bug, roughly the size of a mouse, skittered under the living room door, and by the time Pete managed to follow its path, not so much as a drop of its oily blood remained.
“Damn it.”
“Is it dead, Peter?”
He’d never hear the end of it if she knew it was still on the loose. She’d have him lift every bit of furniture. Pull up the carpets. Search the cupboards.
“Yes, Granny. It’s dead.” He opened and closed the front door – a charade for disposing of a mangled dead body. “It’s gone now.”
“Bloody good riddance. Damn thing sure had a bite on it.”
“It bit you?”
“Yeah, chomped me right before I batted it. Nasty little bastard.”
She pulled the front of her dress open.
Pete averted his eyes. “Granny!”
She pushed out her chest. “Look where it got me.”
Pete turned his head to take the briefest glimpse, but froze in place when his vision settled on the huge, fire red lump that throbbed atop her left breast.
“Jesus. It did that?”
Granny Sims prodded the already volcanic looking wound with the end of her thumb. “Yep, ugly devil was quick.”
Pete moved in for a closer look, certain the mark had grown in the few seconds he’d been staring at it. “That looks nasty. We should get you to the doctor’s.”
“Over a bloomin’ bug bite?” Granny Sims pulled her dress closed. “The day I visit the quack over a bug bite, will be the day I go hunting for me marbles. No doctors for me. A good dollop of lard will fix this.”
“Lard?” Pete knew Granny Sims believed lard had some sort of magical healing power, but he highly doubted it would be any use here. “Don’t you at least have some antihistamine?”
“Anti-whata-mine? I ain’t never had a cut, graze, or goddamn bug bite a good dollop of lard hasn’t fixed.”
Peter knew better than to argue. She’d only end up going on and on and then some. He went to the kitchen where he scooped a lump of lard – chip grit and batter bits included – from the fryer.
To be continued soon ...
