Free Dead Clown Barbecue by Jeff Strand Page B

much. It's still moving. Let's just kill it. I can't have a tarantula running around my apartment."
    I swung the wooden spoon but missed the spider. It dropped onto the floor next to my foot. I backed into the oven door, lost my balance, and fell. I threw out my arms to break my fall, and my hands came down on the hot metal door. I cried out in pain as I landed on my butt.
    The tarantula crawled onto my leg. I yelped and tried to shake it off.
    "It's eating me!" I shouted. It wasn't actually eating me, but I can be forgiven for exaggerating my situation in my cloud of panic.
    Dave crouched over me. "I don't see it!"
    "Kill it!"
    "But I don't see it!"
    "Kill it!"
    "There it is!" Dave slammed his foot down, missing the spider but hitting my shin.
    "You dick!" I shouted.
    "It's too fast!"
    "Get something to murder it with!"
    Dave glanced around the kitchenette for an effective weapon, and then slid a butcher knife out of the wooden holder. I mentally acknowledged that this was not a wise selection, but then the tarantula scurried up my leg and I batted at it in frenzy.
    "Don't move!" said Dave, crouching down. "I'll poke it!"
    "Don't poke it!"
    "Don't move!"
    "If you stab me I'll fuckin' kill you!"
    "I'm not gonna stab you! I'm gonna stab the spider!"
    "Put the knife down!"
    "Trust me!"
    "I don't trust you! You're not trustworthy! No knife!"
    Dave held the tip of the knife above the tarantula. "I'm gonna poke it! Don't move!"
    I froze.
    Dave winced and clutched at his eye with his free hand. "Ow! The eggshell is still there!"
    The tarantula crawled out from beneath the knife and underneath my shirt. I flinched so violently that my upper leg slammed up onto the knife tip. I reacted poorly.
    "It wasn't my fault!" Dave insisted, still clutching his eye. "I didn't do anything!"
    I slapped my palm against my shirt, squishing Eight-Legged Vengeance onto my belly button. Dave pulled the knife out of my leg and stood up.
    "Did you get it?" he asked.
    I pressed harder until I was positive that my navel was covered with tarantula guts. I yanked my shirt up and wiped the goo off.
    "Sorry about the knife," Dave said.
    I kicked him in the shin.
    He dropped the knife.
    It hit my other leg, burying itself about an inch into my flesh. It hurt like hell and I kicked the son of a bitch again, as hard as I could.
    He stumbled backwards, slipped, spun around in a failed attempt to regain his balance, and struck the corner of the counter with his face. His eyeball burst upon impact. I wasn't immediately sure if it was the one with the eggshell or not.
    Dave silently dropped to the floor, blood and slime oozing from his ruined orb.
    "Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry!" I said. "I didn't mean to!"
    "That . . . that was . . . that was . . . ow . . ."
    I yanked the knife out of my leg. "You'll be fine," I promised. "We'll get you to the hospital."
    Dave let out what I'm pretty sure was supposed to be a battle cry and dove at me. I instinctively held the knife out in front of me to protect myself (although, in retrospect, my hands would have worked just as well) and an instant later my buddy was skewered through the throat.
    He said something. The gargling made it difficult to determine exactly what it was, but the tone was not complimentary.
    I pulled the knife out. The huge gout of blood that came out of his neck made it clear that an ambulance would probably not do him a whole lot of good.
    So I didn't call one. I held him, crying softly, until he was done bleeding and living.
    The apartment manager called and asked if I would please turn my damn television down because it was disturbing my neighbors. I said that I would.
    In the middle of the night, I dragged Dave out to my car, drove eighty miles out of town, and buried him in a shallow grave. I drank a bottle of beer to honor his memory. I drove back home, climbed into bed, remembered that I'd left my fingerprints on the beer bottle, drove the eighty miles back to the grave, retrieved the bottle, and drove