Storytime: A System of Checks and Balances.

September 21st, 2011

It was the flyswatter that got him in trouble in the end.  Jeremy had known it always would.
It was an ancient thing that had been owned by his grandfather, formed from some unknown metal that had been shaped with brutal lack of care into an inefficient rusty killing machine that was probably almost as dangerous to humans as it was flies.  Especially humans that were overdue on their tetanus shots.
Jeremy liked it because it made a very satisfying clanging noise whenever he brought down a fly.
The flies liked it because it let them know loud and clear wherever Jeremy was, what he was doing, and how to act accordingly.  For instance, the loud thud of the swatter being laid to rest in its drawer was the signal for the plan to start.
Jeremy was a heavy sleeper, which had, in the past, lost him two separate jobs and cost him uncountable exams, projects, and assignments.  It was once again about to bite him in the bollocks.
There were three sounds which, if he’d heard them, would’ve made the next few hours of his life much more straightforward.
The first was the slow and ominous creak of his prehistoric door being shoved open.
The second was the soft, high-pitched whispering.
The third was the scamper of a thousand tiny little legs getting closer and closer.

The end result of all this was that Jeremy woke up due to a headache and found himself to be upside-down, suspended from his unusually sturdy ceiling fan with his arms tied behind his back.
“Ow,” he said.
“Order!” called a voice.  It wasn’t a nice voice.  It wasn’t a voice that would speak kindly, or use soothing words, or reassure, or even placate.  It was the sort of voice that would speak harshly, or use words like “insolent,” or demand.  On occasion, it might venture to dictate.
It was also very, very tiny.
“I will have order or I will have this room cleared!” threatened the voice.  Jeremy looked at the floor and locked eyes with a fat spider atop a matchbox, coming up six short.
“The defendant is now awake and this court is in session, so would you all SHUT UP!” it hissed.  Jeremy found himself almost hypnotized by its manner of speech: its legs seemed to be trying to play a mixture of tag and speed tic-tac-toe with each other.
A dull murmur died at its request – the hum of hundreds of tiny little things talking to each other, and Jeremy realized that the room was crawling.  Except for the bits of it that were buzzing around in midair.  Ants, flies, spiders, the odd earwig or two… everything in the house with an exoskeleton.
“What the fuck is going on?” asked Jeremy.
The spider glared at him, and Jeremy realized with small astonishment that he could read its expressions quite clearly – a twitch of the mandible, a sudden lustre in its fifth eye, all adding up to the overall appearance of someone who hated his guts, a hatred so solidly-defined that it brute-forced its way past body language in order to shove its feelings directly into his forebrain.
“You,” said the spider, putting as much contempt as could be summoned in a single syllable, “are on trial.  Will you represent yourself, or would you like a lawyer?”
“On trial for what?”
The spider slammed four of its legs onto its matchbox stool, making it jump.  “Reply to my question with a question and I’ll have you done in for contempt of court!  Do you want a lawyer or not?”
Jeremy’s head hurt too much to handle its own thinking.  “Fine, lawyer.  Listen, the phone number’s on the fridge -”
“No!  No fancy lawyer’s tricks for you – you’ll get the same as all the rest of us.  Bring forth his lawyer!”
A small centipede sluggishly pulled itself through a knot of ants and stood at the foot of the matchbox.
“I’m here,” it said.  “Where’s my client?”
“Directly above you,” said the spider.
The centipede looked up.  “Blimey he’s a big one.  You sure about this?  I’m not sure about this.  I thought you said this job was going to be a nice, simple easy one.  You never said my client’s eyes were going to be ten times my weight.”
“He’s entitled to proper representation,” snapped the spider.  “You defend him, I adjudicate, he’s judged by a jury of his peers -” a leg was waved at a set of ants and flies, which waved back – “and then we execute him.”
“Those aren’t my peers,” said Jeremy, thickly.  All the blood rushing to his head seemed to be settling into his tongue.
“Nonsense and lies!” fumed the spider.  “Blatant denials of reality!  Near-sociopathic obliviousness!  These are your housemates, your roomies, close as family!  By god, if I had the power I would smite you down right here and now on the spot, and save the public the uproar of an execution!”
The spider’s anger was so firm that Jeremy very nearly felt it as physical warmth, tickling at his eyebrows.  He recoiled as best as he was able, and nearly swung back into the judge’s bench in the process.
“Cease struggling!” called the judge, hastily sheltering behind the matchbox.  “Bailiffs!  More restraints!”
Dozens of (somewhat smaller) spiders leapt from above and trussed Jeremy further in webbing, grousing all the while.  Several muttered what he suspected were slurs, and one spat on his eyelid as it climbed back up to the ceiling.
“If there are to be no more outbursts from the defendant,” said the spider, giving Jeremy eight of the most evil eyes he’d ever witnessed, “the trial will commence.  Will the defendant’s lawyer…. where is the defendant’s lawyer?”
The centipede was missing.  A fly in the audience volunteered that he’d run away when Jeremy had lurched on the ceiling.
“Cowardly little mangy excuse-for-an-accountant,” said the spider.  “We’ll make do!  Human, you’ll have to take his place.”
“I want a lawyer.  You said I could choose to have someone represent me!”
“And someone is, you spoiled gadabout!  You’ll just have to fill in for him.”  The spider slammed its legs again – presumably its version of a gavel.  “Now!  Order in the court!  The schedule will proceed as follows: first witness, second witness, third witness, followed by recess for dinner and finished with the proclamation of guilt.  Human, do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” said Jeremy.
“Lying, deceitful, castles-in-the-sky clod.  Very well, no one will judge you for your pathetic attempts to evade justice.  Now!  First witness.”
“Objection!” said Jeremy.
“Objection spat upon,” snarled the spider.  “Witness.”
The witness was a lamed fly, who crept up to the stand on four legs, using his one wing as a balance aid on his lop-side.
“Now,” said the spider, “is this the man who crippled you?”
“Yup,” said the fly.  She spoke slowly, as if she was afraid haste would let the words run away.
“And what did he use to commit this abominable deed?”
“Objection!” said Jeremy.
“SHUT UP!” roared the spider.  “What was his weapon!”
“Swatter,” said the fly.
“Was it THIS swatter?” asked the spider, waving a leg at Jeremy’s grandfather’s most prized possession, retrieved from its drawer and currently held under custody of a squadron of beetles on the bedside table.
“Yeah, that’s it,” said the fly.  She scratched herself.  “That all?”
“You may depart.”
“Objection!” yelled Jeremy.
“If it will make you stop talking, then by all means, object away, you vicious clod!” said the spider.  “What is it this time?  Whining about you having to pretend to be your lawyer again?  Are you uncomfortable?  Do you need a drink and a kiss and a hug?”
“You’re the prosecutor,” said Jeremy.
“Congratulations, you win a medal!  ‘Most redundantly unneeded person man in classroom for schooling!'”
“But you’re the judge!”
“If even you” – and this was a truly venomous ‘you,’ a ‘you’ that could strip paint and bleach bones – “can manage to be your lawyer and yourself at once, I think I’m perfectly capable of separating and reconcilitating the roles of out-for-your-blood psychopath of the system and unbiased and impartial official, you villainous cretin.  Now silence your yapping maw before I have the bailiffs cram webs in it!  NEXT WITNESS!”
A millipede crept forwards, one step at a time.  This took about three minutes.
“Sorry, your honour,” he said.  “Nerves.”
“Yes yes we’re all nervous now spit it out: what are your grievances with this swine?”
“Pardon, your honour?”
“Your complaints, your issues, your beefs!  What did this scumbucket do to you and yours?”
“Oh.”  The millipede scratched its head in thought.  “Uhh… well, one time, I was sitting on the front walk…”
“As you had the right to.”
“Yeah.  Yeah, as I had the right to.  And then.  And then he came walking along.”
“And who was he?”
“You know.  The guy.”
“Which guy was this?”
“The one right there.”
The spider’s mandibles were opening and closing in a very slow but stupendously hypnotic way.  “Are you referring to the defendant?”
“Yeah!  Him!”
“Good.”

“And?”
“What?”
“What did.  The defendant.  Do to.  You.”
“Oh!  Oh yeah!  Well, he stepped on me.  Cracked my carapace wiiiiide open!  Lost half my guts and now my nervous system can only run one foot at a time.  Real pain in the you-know-what, right?”
“Right.  Thank you.  Go away.”
“May I cross-examine the witness?” asked Jeremy.
“Who asked you?” said the spider.  “He’s said his piece, it’s buried you in evidence of your own guilt… I think we’re done here.  One more, let’s get the formalities over with.  Next witness!”
The spider hopped down from its matchbox and cleared its throat.  “Thank you, your honour.  Now, one -”
“You can’t be the witness, judge, AND prosecutor!” yelled Jeremy.
The spider whirled about and was sitting on his left eyelid before he could so much as blink, and by then if he’d tried, he’d have been interrupted by its teeth.
“You are the scum of the earth,” it said, in a matter of fact tone.  “You are vile, and you are worthless, and you are an inconsiderate and oversized vermin.  Every day I spun my web on your mailbox, your terrible, tacky, worthless mailbox, and every day I caught insects that would annoy you – apologies, ladies and gentlemen of the jury – and EVERY DAY WHO OPENED THAT MAILBOX EVEN THOUGH THEY KNEW DAMNED WELL THAT THEY’D NEVER GET SO MUCH AS A ROGUE FLYER?  WHO, EH?  WHOM?”  It vibrated with such passion that its fangs seemed about to cause a microscopic friction burn on Jeremy’s eyeball, then turned away in disgust.  “No more questions.  Now – court is in recess.  Everybody go get some dinner.”
The court at large nodded in acknowledgement and seized its neighbours for devouring in a businesslike manner, some being consumed themselves even as they swallowed their own meals.  A single potato chip crumb was procured for Jeremy from underneath the living room couch and forced into his mouth against his protests.
“That’s a crumb that could feed half a colony of ants, you ungrateful sot,” growled the spider.  “I bet you don’t even appreciate it, do you?  Feckless bastard.”
Jeremy thought of a half dozen things to say, then a hundred reasons not to say any of them.  Instead, he preoccuppied himself with thoughts of chips, and how tasty he found them.  Unsuccessfully.  He suspected that his crumb was actually a wad of lint.
“Court is now in session,” said the spider, brushing a few specks of fly from the bits of its face.  “Verdict is guilty.  Jury, what do you think?”
“Guilty,” chorused the five surviving members of the jury.
“Couldn’t put it better myself.  Any last words before the execution, defendant?”
“What am I charged with?” asked Jeremy.
The spider stared.  Then snorted.  Then fell over on its back and laughed, laughed, laughed, legs waving all at once.  “You don’t know?” it cackled.  “Really?  REALLY?  After all the witnesses, the maimings, the stompings, the web-crushings… after everything you’ve done, after seeing the swatter used as evidence… you still don’t know what you’re on trial for?”
Jeremy’s heart sank.  “I guess not.”
“Well,” said the spider.  “Well.”  It shook itself briskly and adjusted its matchbox.  “It’s a bit complicated, but, you see, the long and the short of it is that we’re all members of this household – as are you – and after all we’ve seen… we just think you’re sort of a waste of space.”

“A what.”
“A boring tool.  A needless drag on the property.  A lead weight.”  The spider shrugged, an expression that might’ve almost been embarrassment marring its permanent venom.  “Sounds a little silly saying it like that.  Oh well.  Executioners?  Do your duty!”
And with a one, two, three, snap went the fangs of the spiders at Jeremy’s feet, snip went the webs around his ankles, and whack onto the floor went Jeremy’s head.
This immediately revealed two glaring problems with the execution process.
First, Jeremy was a tallish man and his room was a crampedish one.  His feet had dangled from the ceiling, but his head only travelled two inches before it hit the floor.  This gave him immense back pain and a large bruise, but not much else.
Second, Jeremy was a stoutish man and his floor was a shoddy one.  The floorboards bucked, the bedside dresser jerked, and Jeremy’s grandfather’s flyswatter fell off it with a screech of rust, smearing the beetle squad with its handle, gelatinizing the audience with the shockwaves of its impact, and crushing the judge and jury to an even pulp over the mesh that looked a bit like blackcurrant jam.

Spider silk is strong stuff.  Picking his way free took Jeremy several hours.  But it gave him time to think, and time to plan.  And what he planned his way to first (once he’d rubbed some blood back into his feet) was a cup of very bad and very hot coffee.
“Must be the pesticides,” he said aloud, scalding his tongue very badly.  “I’ve got to use different pesticides.”

 

“A System of Checks and Balances,” copyright Jamie Proctor, 2011.

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