Ode to a Centipede

Oh, Spiders, they're so scary! They creep and they crawl and they spin webs and they have eight eyes ooooOOOOoooh!

ScrewSpiders, they're nothing compared to centipedes. Sure, spiders may be hunters, but centipedes are apex predators. I have grown to fear them for everything they are, and everything they are not. One in particular is more terrifying than all of them, and will remain as a scar in my heart for as long as I shall live. Here, let me go back a bit. I was born in Saint Peter hospital on Talk Like A Pirate Day. You guys know the day. The doctors said that I was a medical marvel, that a baby as underdeveloped as I shouldn't have survived, yarrrrr!

Fast foward a bit to my first day in school. I was the new kid who liked Star Wars, had imaginary friends, and glasses. I became the prime target, hard-wired into the tracking systems of those cold, unfeeling machines known as playground bullies. The Bolshoychlen brothers approached me one day at the swing-set, holding something in their hands, and asked me if I'd ever seen a,

"Pixie Stick with eight million legs"

"No," I said, eyes wide with wonderment.

So, one of the brothers showed me what was in his hands. >note to self, write the scary description of the centipede when it's FREAKING DAYTIME< I was broken out of my trance when they up and threw it at me.

I think I broke the sound barrier with how fast I tore ass out of there. Not that I could hear anything, though, because the centipede was emitting this god-awful high-pitched scream. No, no that was me. I don't remember when I shook the critter off. I'm guessing it was probably after I ran through the chicken-wire fence but before I vaulted the school bus. I rampaged through the town, screaming and crying, until I reached my home. I jumped in the shower. I washed, I washed, but I never, ever got clean.

Later that very same night, I was lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling when suddenly I heard my window open. I turned to the source of the creak to see the centipede from the park standing...sitting...(laying?) in my windowsill, looking directly at me.

I noticed that his moonlit silhouette was missing a couple legs, legs I severed off during my little rampage no doubt. Even in my petrified state I still wanted to gloat at him. Out from my covers I slowly, ever-so-slowly produced my hand, which in turn produced my middle finger. It stood still for a moment, probably meditating, and then turned and crawled away.

So apparently I was able to recover phycologically, because I grew up into a fine young excuse for a man and ultimately landed a girlfriend. Our relationship grew and grew, until I felt like the time was right to pop the question. But the entire time I was with Mary, I kept thinking about Pixie Stick. That's what I named the centipede, by the way.

I thought about him during my first date, after my first kiss at the movies, when I would be eating spaghetti, and when I'd be on the John. I would see him in my dreams at night, always more vividly each time. I swear to you, when I would wake up, I could sometimes feel his hot breath in my ear. It was actually just Mary most of the time, though.

I knew that while I was enjoying my prime of life, hanging out with my girlfriend, writing comedy articles for horror websites, that...thing...was out there recovering, training, getting stronger. He probably regrew his missing legs and added about six thousand extra ones because he is a terrifying little jerk.

I tried to find peace in my girlfriend, and her glorious rack, but sometimes not even THAT could distract me from Pixie Stick. I...I felt like every night I slept would be a reenaction of that scene from Star Wars Two when Pademe gets attacked by the space-bugs. EwwwWWWWW!

Eventually I moved on, though, and my girlfriend and I got married. We decided to settle down and start a family, so we started looking at houses. We finally found one that we both really liked. Everything was looking so hopeful when we were moving in, that was until...it happened. I was bringing some towels into the bathroom, my wife brought the soaps. When we entered the bathroom, however, we were greeted with quite the surprise .

There he was, standing...sitting...(laying?) in the tub! Pixie Stick! He had grown to practically ten times his size, towering over me with the height of two men! His red flesh was now black, scaly armor. Some of his legs were still severed, the stumps scarred over like battle-scars. Oh, but his other legs- they were more muscular than my entire body. He peered down at me, 16 of his hands holding back the shower curtain. He glared into my very soul with black, empty eye-domes. Beneath their glassy surface swirled smokey evil amongst the oily darkness. I think I saw some alphabet cereal in there, too. Suddenly, the cereal in his eyes spelled out the phrase "You're dead"

Crap. Oh sweet, merciful crap! I cowered like the man-child I was, covering my face with my arms and shouting "Just take the soaps and leave in peace!"

Oh, but the giant centipede had other plans. He instead took my wife, seizing her with 9 hands and throwing her over his shoulder. The shoulder was metaphorical of course, because he's a flipping centipede.

And just like that, he stormed out of my house. I tried to follow him out, but he got into my car with Mary and burned rubber, peeling out of there.

But as he drove off I noticed that something flew out the back of the car. It was a note! I caught the note in mid air and hurriedly read it aloud.

"Answer your phone" What? What does that mean? Suddenly my phone vibrated in my pocket, scaring the crap out of me. I answered it, and listened carefully, holding my breath.

"Stop holding your breath, it's me. If you want to see your wife again, you'll do exactly as I say,"

"Listen, Pixie Stick, don't do anything to my wife! Don't you touch her till I get there! Oh, I'm so gonna f*** you when I find you!" I screamed into my phone, eliciting just the weirdest looks from my neighbors.

"Oh, no no no, that's not how this works. You do as I say, or she gets it!" Pixie Stick responded. I heard my wife call my name in the background.

"Wait...what do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Get into your other car and drive to the destination I've programmed into your phone's Map Application,"

"What map application?" I asked.

"Apple Maps," the creature said diabolically.

"Nooooo!"

After about six hours of driving across deserts, through rain forests, over frozen tundras and across bridges that didn't exist, I finally reached Pixie's liar. His lair was a nightmarish sight to behold. It was all at once the most wicked, grotesque display of both fire and brimstone one could possibly fathom. Truly there holds no record of a place more foul then this. Even the very ground burned with the stench of a million corpses.

"Why did you ask me to meet you here, in the back of a Wal-Mart?" I asked Pixie Stick, but he was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, a rope descended from the roof, and landed a few yards ahead of me. From that rope descended Pixie, wearing a top hat, high-cut dress and heels. He twirled around on the rope as he slid down, landing and throwing his head back. He pulled the rope, and a bucket of water dropped a waterfall down into his glorious form while saxophone music played in the background. He held that position for a minute while I clapped for him.

After which he stood up, shed his garments, and crossed 24 of his arms. "Did you enjoy the trip here?" He asked.

"Yes, it was nice. I went pee a lot."

"That's nice."

"It really was."

"Good, I'm glad."

"Can I have my wife back now?" I asked.

"Nah," he replied, admiring his fingernails.

"What? Please?"

"No, first you and I must fight. We shall engage in a duel of honor, and do battle for the hand of your bride. The loser, as punishment, will be forced to write a comedy article based off his experience, and publish it on a website that only accepts horror!" Pixie Stick told me, stopping every now and then to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, let's do this, sooooon!" I screamed, throwing a left hook at the beast, but then something went wrong.

He blocked it with 9 firm palms, twisted my arm, and pushed me to the ground with 5 feet. I groaned in pain, having been plugged in the first round. I stood up again, and realized that Pixie was wide open. I was so going to punch him, but I hesitated. I didn't want to touch this thing. Who wants to touch a bug? Ewwww!

While I was shuddering with fright, Pixie took advantage of my moment of weakness and ass-slammed me to the ground. I landed with a thud.

At that moment I closed my eyes. I tried to think of something, anything that might aid me in my battle. Some shred of knowledge that I could use to my advantage, to turn the tables on this multi-legged stick of Beef Jerky. I was terrified of centipedes, this one probably more than most. But what if I could counter that fear? What if I could use it against him?

I stood up, a new fire burning in my eyes, and with reckless abandon I reached out and grabbed Pixie's head and pulled him into a kiss. I gave him a big fat smooch right on the eyedome. I was no longer afraid, because he was nothing.

"Ahhhh!" Pixie screamed, pulling away, "My eye! My eye! You slobbered all over my eye!"

Quickly I grabbed my wife and pulled her to my side. I asked her what had just happened,

"Didn't you know that insects hate it enough when humans touch them, let alone kiss them?" She told me.

"Ghaaa! You know what? Screw you, dewd!" Pixie grunted, turning around and slithering away.

I sighed as I watched him go, holding my wife close and feeling the last bits of my fear slowly fading away, "Goodbye Pixie Stick...I'll always remember you."

By Tyber Zann