welcome to my parlour

They call me Robatocolus, arachnid extraordinaire.

“Crap,” my guest responds, ceasing its struggling.

Strange and perplexing seeing as dinner does not generally, well, speak. Nor do meals normally comprehend web mechanics. I start hoping the fly last week was perhaps over ripe, therefore explaining everything.

Confused but determined; moths, even scrawny ones, being considered something of a delicacy, preparation begins. Wrap, inject venom, wait until toxins convert flesh to fluid.

Screams echo before merciful silence thankfully takes over. One final effort sends
Visions from this creature, informing spiders within earshot that stories regarding becoming what you eat are horrifyingly true.