The Tragedy of a Spider

As I was reading Eastman's: "From The Deep Woods to Civilization," a
fascinating account of a Sioux doctor on the Sioux reservation during
the time of the ghost dance, I noticed a black spider on the white
ceiling; Above a wilting house plant, near a heater vent, he hangs from
the ceiling, complete with hairs, fangs, reproductive cells, a
primitive nervous system.
And I have a decision to make. If I try to kill him, he may bite me.
If I leave him alone, it's quite possible that he'll bite me as I
sleep. I hear the drum and the fife; I can hear him squishing in my
imagination. Yin and Yang struggle in my nervous system.
Really, enlightened self interest calls for me to leave him alone. But
seeing as he's become a literary character, I really think all of our
interests lie in his death.
At any rate, a second ago, I got some toilet paper, leaped into the
air and hit him, doing only mild damage and sending him hurling to the
floor, very nearly onto me. Obvious against the white carpet, I saw and
crushed him. Those fangs will never bite anyone; those eggs will never
create new life.
Here he is on my desk: a furry, forlorn sight. His athletic frame will
nevermore zoom across the ceiling. His stomach acids will never digest
another meal. I squished him for a fetus of my siring that even now
grows within a lesbian's womb and conceivably might read this someday.
But the death of this fanged but living being is also on your heads...
I killed him for my readers and for the literary market-place.
I squint at him/her with these fading eyes and I can see tiny, shiny,
black eyes looking back at me. I didn't hate this creature. I'd rather
give the earth to him and his ancestors than have it be a wasteland. I
admire his small strength though I quiver at the thought of his
venom.
A thoughtful man would have let him be. Things might have turned out
differently for both of us. But I am not ultimately a thoughtful man;
my bare bodkin is a pen. I am caught in the web of this society but
every cell of my body is bent to my dread purposes.
But I have Halet's weakness; I am honestly intrigued by whether this
black weaver, whose corpse now rests on a bed of coffee-grounds in an
American trash can, is looking down on me and whether he has anything
to tell me.