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What Might've Happened to Arachnid Melvin

by Grayden McIntyre 5 months ago in Short Story · updated 5 months ago
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By Grayden D. McIntyre

[Figure 12e: Canis Lupus Europanus - Bop]

Europa is the fourth largest moon of Jupiter, a Galilean moon, a self sustaining biosphere. Its nitrogen based lifeforms show signs of advanced intelligence, but are entirely unaware that they are in fact, on a satelliting moon to planet Jupiter.

The seemingly most intelligent species can be described as somewhat humanoid. They are anthropomorphic and approximately earth-human height. The only difference between them and us: their legs, their fingers. Their hands’ fingers are indescribable in terms of earth science, although not in a spectacular way and I’ll leave it at that. There are five legs protruding from the pelvis, hence the species’ name- Pedepentumanoidis Europanus. Their amount of legs is certainly not indicative that their intelligence level is any higher than us Homo Sapiens.

The “Red Sun” is what this species calls Jupiter, for their inferior little minds can’t tell any better [See fig. 37]. So they call it the Red Sun, and worship it for their own “perfect placement” in proximity. The Europans are not aware of much about what lies beyond their icy iron clouds, aside from the Red Sun and occasional star that seeps through the cracks. [See fig. 8]. The Pedepents think that if their celestial body were mere “onibytes” [0.9 kilometers] from its current location, the “planet” [Moon] wouldn’t be able to support any of the life it does.

Almost all of the Pedepents, out of fear, seem to worship this only thing they know of outside of their biosphere.

But there is one known exception to this pattern. The exceptional specimen is a failed animal sociologist named Gilbert [See fig. 12m]. This Pedepent knows they’re on a moon somehow and I’ve been assigned the dubiously negligible task of figuring out how.

The following depicts an excerpt of his present thought processes, which we are currently extracting from his mind via satellite [His retrospection is notable; we suspect he knows that we are listening, that this self narration method is some sort of ploy/mockery to throw us off]. There is a 35.72 second delay in the live transmission of this data to our station. We are studying this “scientist’s” mind, and it will be our last scientific study before we have the all clear to execute the astronomics of removing Europa from Jupiter’s orbit. Phase two of our research will then catalyze.

Gilbert is a dog sociologist of sorts [clarification needed: “dog”]. A dog food company hired him to figure out how dogs [New information available: see fig. 12e] communicate so he could give them a certified “YES” that dogs want ​that​ brand the most. The company hired him to... discover... for commercialization, that out of all dog food brands theirs is indeed the best. He lives in some sort of building composed of multiple compartments for different groupings of people to live in [see fig. 90], in the same compartment as the famous dogs from the company’s commercial, the subjects of his study. Gilbert observes their social interactions regarding the food, and takes care of them. We observe him, and he observes his dogs. His dogs, presumably, observe each other. And their Red Sun [Jupiter] observes all.

Reminder- there is a 35.72 second delay in the transmission. This is not our fault. Europa’s atmosphere is very difficult to work with. And so is Gilbert’s thought processing.


- - -

I took a hot shower before the hot date that I am currently driving to. Mmm. But right when I stepped in to get clean, I happened to glance down and what I saw caused quite a vague and intense terror. There it was. An arachnid the span of an infant’s fist. Standing with its nine legs sprawled out between the five of mine and looking right up into my bits.

Spider fellow here had probably just reached the pinnacle prime of life; a real handsome young man, but here come only wrinkles and male pattern baldness, now and forever. My first instinct was to urinate the bug down the drain. And so I did that. No thought required.

I haven’t gathered much research from the dogs lately so I might as well theorize some spider’s life-path. It’s practice, to get my mindset away from all the recent solipsism and then I can eventually get around to doing a solid study on the dogs. I’ll do that tomorrow maybe. I should, anyways.

That spider probably had quite a subterranean adventure.

Here’s one possible life:

This spider- let’s call him Melvin - floated apanic in my golden whirlpool for about thirty seconds. Probably a little shocked and a little aggrieved. He’d probably lost all hope of whatever his surface plans were in that instant.

Melvin theoretically fought for air while being toppled for miles or feet of piping. Not sure how long the pipes are [Incerpt: see fig. 58]. All I know is that they lead to the sewer. After he made it to the sewer, Melvin was in a completely different world. He probably met some other sewer cretins and talked trash on me for a while.

“I saw a big praying mantis lizard titan and it pissed on my head until I was sent to this shithell!” he would probably say. I imagine him in this phase to be grumpy and worn by the state of affairs. The sewer could prove difficult to get used to.

Then after a while of hating me, the oppressor, he probably just would get tired and bored and decide to make the best of his time in the sewer. He probably kills a sewer rat in epic battle of beasts, and joins a herd of primitive ransackers who scuttle this way and that as they please, wistfully and in any beloved direction. Like a child he is born into the wind.

One day he scuttles too zealously, knocking solicitations on the window of Father Old Age. His knee gives out.

“I’m sorry Melvin, but you have scurvy. We have to amputate. No more scuttling,” says an attractive spider-doctor-man. Later on, the spider doctor and Melvin become romantic. Melvin gets a job across the way from the hospital at the sewer delicatessen shop to save up for an artificial leg. He sells bits of edible and rare sewer chunks there [Incerpt: see fig. 10], and daydreams about the day he can finally become a cyborg spider, free to scuttle and self actualize. Then finally one day he has enough money for it; plus the help of his lover's discount. He now has a new leg. And there he is, once again with all nine legs.

Next, allegedly... he gets pregnant! Thousands of baby Melvins hitch a ride on the back of Melvin’s abdomen, with each their own hereditary metallic natural apparatus. From Melvin the babies would surely have inherited the genes necessary for metal parts. The doctor dies of decapitation because that’s how it goes, but Melvin is still living in so much bliss! He is so very satisfied, because of the babies and the newfound wealth, that he finally comes to decide gratitude for I the titan Gilbert hath peed him down the drain into such a wholesome life. He starts a cult, starts to theorize about what I’m up to nowadays... To them I am Red Sun, the light source of prosperity, and I am content that their specific perspective of me is possibly a government lie. I am simply their deity.

Over the course of time, he recruits somewhere between nine and twenty three members. Each one walks over the threshold of a tiny bridge like it’s some sort of boys’ troop recruitment ritual, symbolizing their newfound path of enlightened living. Eventually his thousands of offspring want to join the cult, so he walks them over the threshold too, amid tears of joy. After all this time, he can finally cry. And he cries so much.

The babes have grown up in all of the past two days, which have been their whole life Melvin has loved every moment of it. As he guides them over the threshold in this touching moment, he realizes that his tears are yellow. It turns out that my urine has been fermenting in his tear ducts all this time without him realizing, boiling and scheming against him. The tears become airborne in the form of a poisonous phosphorus gas, and the children begin to keel over and die.

“COVER YOUR NOSES!” Melvin shouts desperately. At this point he would not be able to hold back his tears, which have also curdled emotionally from his complexified emotions. The phosphorus dissolves all four of his eyes into muck. Melvin cannot see.


The babes scramble around the ceremony chamber, becoming toxified and dying and so on. He wriggles eight real legs and his one metallic leg in search of his children. Unknowingly, Melvin slices the metallic leg through his last living spider baby. The youngest one too.

They are all dead. He knows it. Only the members of the cult, also blinded, survive to mourn with him. That’s when he realizes that instead of worshipping me this whole time he should’ve been plotting revenge. So he does that.

He gathers the corpses of his children and engineers out of them what he assumes to look like a large mecha-spider. He can ride in the middle and control it. It’s strong because of all the metal legs. The members of the cult swear a blood-lust covenant to avenge the carnage they could not see.

And thus ends my assumption of what probably happened to the spider I urinated down the drain. I’ve arrived at the destination of my date and mustn’t get caught up in these things. I guess studying the dogs all this time has put me into an overly analytical pattern. It oughta be worth the mental rewiring in the end, to see to it that all dogs in the whole world get the best... nutrition or som1ething. It’s nice to 0consider th1ese things. I’m such a d1edicated... sci1en0tis1t... what a dre01amy 0cat101c1h I a100m100110 ----

[Incerpt: an abnormally dense iron cloud formation is blocking Input 2’s signal momentarily, causing a data omission of indeterminable time...]


-ome time has passed since I’ve been on the date. Framonga now lives with me and the dogs. She’s gentle and sweet and funny. And she’s probably contributed more toward my research than I have. But my contributions toward the research have sort of taken a gentle null as of lately, so that’s probably not much of a compliment. She is so gentle and sweet and funny.

Our live-in-laboratory is just a happy little home now. The dogs lick my face some mornings. They’ve forgotten that I’m their scientist. I’m learning that simple living is better than doing science. I haven’t exactly checked the mail for the company’s check ins though, and they’re bound to come knocking on our door eventually. I guess I’ll just tell the company frankly that Bop’s my dog now, and that no hard science has recently been conducted. That’s that.

It should be fine. Framonga is consistent enough in the things related to the experiment. I think we’d actually have a proper amount of theorem to show the company if they were to unexpectedly demand results, thanks to her. Even if it’s been months since the science regimens have even formulated, we haven’t completely forgotten to observe the dogs. We’re fine. But still, it’s mostly Framonga doing it.

She notices things about the dogs that I fail to see sometimes.

Just the other day, I was hopped up on cough medicine. I thought a frozen pizza would sound nice to eat. To unwrap the pizza I grabbed the biggest blade of all. It looked cool. Then all of a sudden I was not grabbing it, because the cough medicine had caused me to forget what I was holding. My reflexes became spasmodically flopping when that I noticed the knife’s relocation. I swatted the knife around my aura, which was visible from the cough medicine. It flew through the air for a notable amount of time, until it was done falling around. I caught the knife in the webbing between some of my phalanges on another hand. And very deeply I did catch it. Blood [Incerpt: See Fig. 13m] was everywhere. On the floor, in the sink, in the freezer, in me... In ME? When I thought about all that blood in ME I couldn’t handle it and my brain immediately switched off. I fainted to the ground. Blood in me. Crazy.

And on the way down I bonked the kitchen counter, in an apparently successful attempt to produce more blood. Further on the way down, my was head hitting some drawers, getting hung up on them accidentally pulling them open, pulling them completely open and out of their sockets, onto myself.

I never can tell what my body’s agenda is when it's so, but in this scenario it put up a very inadequate fight against the kitchen. I'm certain the fight was thrown. I laid there for a while as I regained consciousness and Framonga patched me up. In my delusions, I worried about the company coming to knock on the door. But I was at peace on the floor, so my worries were just thoughts acknowledged, addressed with “Hm. Interesting.” And a subtle cold feeling... which couldn’t have been unease, no, now that I think of it. The Red Sun shined on my brainless smile through the window. I was simply existing.

My favorite dog Bop came and licked up my blood. I laid there watching it happen. He grinned and lapped the whole puddle up off the ground, all the while looking up at me as if he were an ugly person, luck stricken, doing cunnilingus. Framonga said it was a blood brothers situation. Framonga notices more than me. I think she noticed more that time in particular because I was consciously inanimate. Her “blood brothers” remark was worth more than the amount of research that I had gathered in the fullness of three weeks prior or so. She’s so good at my job. Somebody, promote her!

Framonga says that the dogs don’t actually prefer any dog food over the other. They’ll eat most of it all the same, and actually prefer non-dog-food quite obviously. They love those Gorbalnab Nodules [Incerpt: Gorbnalab Nodule food format: slop/pocket hybrid for Pedepents]. Maybe I should tell the dog food company to change their slogan to “Scientifically proven to be average dog food because all dog food is average dog food. We now sell Gorbalnabs. Feed sparingly.” Maybe. Doesn’t necessarily flow. I’m a dog sociologist not a marketing jock. Plus I don’t know if Gorbalnab would be down for that business partnership.

Another thing Framonga noticed is that the dogs look up to me, not as a messiah but as a big brother. I’m simply their friend that knows more than them. They don’t mind my superior intellect. I use it to make their lives better. When I’m not home they prance around amongst themselves and bask together in the holy redshine, out on the balcony grass. They are never sad. How am I ever supposed to observe anything about what benefits them if they are never sad? Maybe it’s the dog food that makes them never sad. I ought to conduct a second experiment called “Sneak increasingly more dog food into all of Framonga’s food and see if she becomes happier before she notices she’s eating dog food, the dog food that our livelihood depends on.” But for now, we sit criss-cross applesauce on the kitchen floor cleaning up noodles that she spilled. It actually could be the perfect opportunity.

That’s another thing I appreciate in her- she's not completely blind about the whole Red Sun situation. It’s common to find people that are so very blind about it. But rare to find a slightly less blind person. Everyone’s scared about what’s at the top of society or religion. I think they perceive it wrong, out of fear or some other internal thing. Not me, I’m not scared! I’ve studied dogs. I’m on the ground picking up noodles with them right this moment, we are having a blast. My dear Framonga’s having a blast too.

There’s no need to fear the magnifying glass of society’s version of God when you’re on a paid mission to exploit your pets’ neurologies for commercialism. Fuck.

I can’t be the only one. Where’s Bop when you need him? Oh… nearby. Open your eyes. Be careful not to slice him. It’s a dangerous kitchen.

When we were getting off the floor just now to put the noodles in the sink and wash the floor off of them, I was surprised to see that some other sludge had beaten us there. A strange-looking mass of classic bile with pieces of dead pipe-living-critters, it looked like, was gurgling out of the drain. The stink was horrendous and it was certainly no place to wash noodles. Framonga approached the garbage disposal lever on the wall that would cut up the mass of smelly bug gurgle. A dreadful curiosity inched into a dubious look on me. I halted her, I wanted to see what was pushing up this strange sludge. It was probably something that had to be fixed in the pipes. Now was my chance to observe, to finally know pipes’ lengths and girths. Oh yes.

An exquisitely long pointed object, something like an insect leg, stabbed out from the hole. Nope! This was not fun science anymore, I knew what this was. I changed my mind. “TURN IT ON TURN IT ON!” I said.

She did. But the leg twitched only subtly in the grinding. Soon our rotating garbage blade in the sink hole got stripped and broken. It yelled a horrid screech, resulting in but a wet clunk. The leg rose out higher and began thrusting its rage, until its base ripped the sink from the counter. Framonga and I flew backward through the air, out of natural response.

I noticed the pipes under the sink. I finally knew how long they were, but that’s not the dimension that surprised me. It was the girth that was the astounding thing. They were about one zibyte [Incerpt: 0.5 meters] wide right under the sink hole. Fat pipes.

At the base of the protruding leg arose an uncountable eight other legs made of dead spiders and metal, with, astonishingly and artisinally, a semiperfectly spherical clump of dead spiders and metal in the middle. Twelve more of these creatures came out one by one, each then stood, one and a half zibytes tall, faced in random directions because they could not see, waiting for the whole team to arrive. I knew what this obvious situation was. The mecha spider Marvin and his cult of vengeance finally had come for me. Oh yeah, it must be this. I looked closer into the sphere, and sure thing there he was, blindly piloting the thing. Oh no.

More of them oozed and emerged from the pipes. Framonga and I watched them pop out, patiently.

Thirteen mecha spiders were now huddled in the kitchen. Framonga burst into surprisingly immediate fear, including tears. “WHAT ARE THEY??”

“… I’m sorry Framonga. It’s Marvin,” I said. [Incerpt: The subject Gilbert has misrecalled the bequethed name of Melvin.]

“- MARVIN?!?!”


Three mechas moved suddenly and ungracefully to pin her down with their legs. That’s twenty-seven legs. Two regular sized spiders crawled down some of the legs and shuffled onto Framonga’s delicate complexion. It caused an itch for her that could not be scratched, because any way of itching was prevented by twenty-seven legs. So she whimpered and sweated instead. She would’ve squealed and twisted and threlged, but there was no direction for her to exercise freedom of expression into, perhaps because of the twenty-seven legs.

She was still stammering at me about who Marvin was. I didn’t have the heart to tell her--she’s so innocent. And I- so shameful. She’d never do what I did to an unsuspecting arachnid. I lunged at the mechas, but a few [Incerpt: clarification needed: what is “a few” times nine, in relation to twenty-seven?] others of the ten standing idle caught me and immobilized me with many legs. I was held, contorted stiff above Framonga, forced to watch. Blind spiders propped open my eyelids.

The spiders on Framonga’s face had unzipped their little pants, and began urinating onto her eyeballs. “...I’M BLINDED!... CAN’T SEE!... CAN’T SEE!!” she said. She continued with whimpers and screams and whatnot, until the spiders moved their streams into her mouth. Their aim was impressive for being visually impaired in unfamiliar territory. I was not feeling impressed. She drowned, and I hovered above her in the arms of spiders as she died.

It was in this moment of mortification that the true meaning of being alive [Incerpt: review needed for redaction- on the grounds of lacking relevancy, in my scientific opinion] became painfully obvious. I was not feeling impressed. Fear and regret were obvious, but I was felt by existence, a sense of belonging.

These spiders were finally fulfilling their dreams, not by worshipping a color in the sky out of fear, but by spending quality time with one another. They were community. Fuck to fear society’s God of fear and money. They were community, love into from hath God become. Just like me and Framonga had, and the dogs. Just like Bop and the dogs fooling around when I’m out, whom by the way were currently being peacefully absorbed into the crethe of mecha number eight [Incerpt: Clarification needed: “crethe”].

But then I realize the futility of this knowledge, as I no longer am part of any community. Mine has been drowned, absorbed, kaputted. So Red Sun, please forgive me and take me unto whatever comes next welcomingly. Please… those true welcoming warm beams of yours that a few of the love enlightened have always yammered ab0-

- - -


Conclusion: Okay that’s enough, I’d say we’ve finally gathered the necessary information here. The past Earth hour has given us sufficient evidence to deduce that Gilbert does not have any corroboration of our existence, and poses no threat whatsoever to the experiment. Not that he poses anymore of a threat now anyways, on the grounds of his murder[?]…

His self narration was also not, after all, an attempt to mislead us. It appears this was a method of self analysis, or possibly just the strangely theatrical thought process of a weird little dramatic five legged social creature. He was not that bad of a sociologist it seems. He was just a guy living there, observing something. He merely tried to understand a sense of community, and failed forever in my scientific opinion, because the meaning is that it’s not worth the study, in my scientific opinion. No other ​known living​ beings on this moon have ever had a controversial thought that sustained against challenge.

Space station. Now that that’s over, you may now execute the relocation of Europa. Commencing with original phase two objective: to observe the events that take place, in civilizations, mass religion, and psychologies, when Jupiter ceases to exist in the presence of the denizen of Europa, yet all biomes remain inhabitable. Their nitrogen base and magnetized iron+nickel core should sustain their environment like an impeccable thermos. Our space station, originally built on Earth the Superior, has the capacity to simulate homeostasis in the event of any unwelcome weather changes. The inhabitants of Europa will be fine for now, let’s kick these bitches into Y2K.


Short Story

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Grayden McIntyre

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